I've Got to Get This off My Chest

By Ilene Jones and Irene Gautney

This book is an absolute must read for not only all cancer survivors, but for their friends and family. With lots of heart and even a little humor, its a life-changing journey of twists and turns that will open your eyesMike Valentino, Editor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 21, 2009
• ISBN: 9781450014854

Ilene Jones

When Irene was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005, I was a complete basket case because I knew nothing about breast cancer. I cried all day every day at work and at home. As I researched, I learned more about breast cancer and the knowledge helped me to feel better. For the most part, I only cried when Irene received bad news. Now, I am not crying at all because I’ve decided to be a positive influence in her life and have started The Power of PINK Breast Cancer Foundation. PINK stands for People in Need of Kindness. I can’t think of anyone more in need. Now all anyone has to do to get the help they need is to log onto our website www.powerofpinkbcf.org. Irene’s fight inspired me to help others, I hope our story inspires you.

Book preview

Copyright © 2009 by Ilene Jones & Irene Gautney.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009913830

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4500-1484-7

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4500-1483-0

ISBN: Ebook 978-1-4500-1485-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

72738

Contents

Chapter 1:   The Wedding

Chapter 2:   Discovering the Lump

Chapter 3:   The Mammogram

Chapter 4:   Mastectomy

Chapter 5:   Fish Fry

Chapter 6:   Big Decisions

Chapter 7:   The Oncologist’s Meeting

Chapter 8:   Choices

Chapter 9:   Chemo

Chapter 10:   The Smell

Chapter 11:   An Ice Cold Beer & A Car Wash

Chapter 12:   Radiation

Chapter 13:   Parades and Pink

Chapter 14:   Pink All Over

Chapter 15:   Busy Bees

Chapter 16:   Miracle Network

Chapter 17:   Funerals and Bucket Lists

Chapter 18:   The Power of Pink

Chapter 19:   A Day With Dad

Chapter 20:   Lessons Learned

Helpful Websites

Dedication

This story, the tale of twin sisters battling one’s cancer, is for all the women and men who struggle with the physical, emotional, social, and financial repercussions of breast cancer. Irene and I cannot think of anyone more in need. We honor all People In Need of Kindness (PINK) with these pages. We hope you find our story educational and inspirational, a help when you need it most. Visit us on the Internet at The Power of Pink Breast Cancer Foundation, www.powerofpinkbcf.org.

We dedicate this book with deep love and affection to our parents, husbands, and children without whom we would never have become the people we are today. To all our volunteers, without whom we could not spread awareness the way we do. And, to all our family and friends that have supported the two of us for the last several years during this ongoing battle.

A special thanks to Marilyn Eudaly for all the hard work it took to edit and revise my original copy of book. Thanks to Mike Valentino for the final edit and words of wisdom.

Chapter 1

The Wedding

May 2003

Ilene: Spring is a beautiful time of year in Missouri. The vast open grasslands turn from the yellow-brown of winter to bright green before it’s claimed again by the harsh heat of the summer sun. Cottontails and squirrels come out to play. Birds flock back by the thousands. The whole world comes alive. Such wide-open spaces can be deceptive. Nothing at all seems to be happening. Only with a closer look do you realize how much life is brewing in the tall grasses.

The same can be said about my story. It seemed nothing out of the ordinary would ever happen. Then one day my world changed. Jeff Jones came into my life.

Jeff and I made each other’s acquaintance through a mutual friend. It is only a coincidence that our children all new each other through school. I have a son, Billy, from a previous marriage. Jeff has three children, Justin, Brittany, and Jacob. No matter how wonderful your children are. No matter how important they are to you. It’s not the same as having that special someone to share your life. It took more than twenty years before everything started to come together for me. Spring had come to my life with a new adult relationship, a new job, and a maturing son who made me proud.

Jeff has an honesty I admire and respect. I saw in him the same values I admire in my Dad. I felt certain, like Dad, Jeff had my best interests at heart. He would love me no matter what. No words can describe how happy I was when he proposed. I was ecstatic. We were going to be married. Our children and families approved. This would be my happily ever after. His youngest would soon graduate from high school. With our children involved in their own lives, Jeff and I would have years to live in blissful happiness. It wasn’t to be that easy.

For the wedding we chose Smuggler’s Inn. Besides the fact that it was centrally located, it was a place with special meaning for my family. I had planned a simple ceremony with a prime rib buffet, and a reception in the bar area. Early in the day family volunteered to decorate with yellow flowers done by my mother and me. White, yellow and blue balloons and small vases with our flowers were scattered in the bar area where the reception was to be held. In the corner of the upper balcony area of the restaurant, we had a decorated arch placed to perform the ceremony.

I was a bundle of nerves as I stepped into the foyer dressed in my ivory suit with the shear overskirt. A hair disaster had delayed my entrance. Irene, my twin sister and maid of honor, reassured me. She started down an aisle formed by our guests standing in front of the tables we had pushed aside. Irene’s daughter, Chasity, had chosen the music for me. I felt like a beautiful bride and a proud mama as Billy took my arm to walk me down the aisle.

Jeff and I were really married! I pinched myself to make sure it was true. Once I had taken that first step holding on to Billy’s arm, I felt like I was in dream. The ceremony and buffet dinner seemed to happen in slow motion and yet went by so fast. Everything whirled by in a blur, a sea of smiling relatives and friends. Jeff and I danced our first dance as husband and wife. Now the disc jockey played music and encouraged people onto the dance floor. Some stood in clusters visiting. Tables were occupied by the youngest and oldest of the generations. Time to cut the cake.

Where was Irene? She planned to help serve the cake. I searched the crowd. From behind, I felt a tap on my left shoulder. Not falling for that old trick, I turned to my right to see her flash a brilliant smile.

Congratulations, Sissy. Irene came with us to the dessert table. As my maid of honor, she blended in wearing a pale yellow dress with some flowers printed on it that almost matched the flowers we used to decorate.

Something’s wrong with her. The twin telepathy kicked in. She looked, happy and worried at the same time. What a strange notion. This is a day to celebrate. Of course Irene is happy. I’m seeing things. Turning to Jeff, I cut off that thought process.

A roar went up from the crowd as we shoved cake into each other’s mouth. Billy raised a glass, To Mom and Jeff, may all your dreams come true. Crystal clinked as the crowd toasted and the reception heated up.

Happiness bubbled inside of me. I giggled like a young girl. Despite all the merriment, the warning feeling about Irene stayed right there along my chest where my collar bones meet. Nerves. Just nerves. It will pass.

Periodically, I caught her eye as friends came up to wish Jeff and me well. She smiled and talked with everyone as she helped cut and serve the remaining cake. Still, sadness lingered about her. An hour passed before I cornered her alone in the ladies room.

After making sure we were alone by checking under the stalls, I went to lock the door like they do in the movies. There was no lock on the door. I guess that only happens in the movies. So, I leaned my back against the bathroom door to discourage any unwelcome guests from entering. What’s up with you?

She shook her head in a non-committal gesture. Nothing sissy. This is your day. Even though each of us girls was raised to not shy away from limelight, Irene always knew when to share it.

I raised an eyebrow and held her shoulders. Just who do you think you’re talking to? Look me in the eye because I know when something’s not right. Her beautiful deep brown eyes was beginning to shine as if she were about to cry.

There, away from the crowd, Irene took my hand and pulled it to her already tanned face. My fingers brushed the bump in front of her ear. A bump I knew she had for many years. It was nothing really, a little lump under smooth skin. Strangers wouldn’t even notice it. From time to time, she complained or joked about it. I always considered it a vanity point—not anything serious.

I touched the barely noticeable knot and breathed a sigh of relief. Is that all it is? This is what has you worried?

She nodded, rubbing the bump. I think it could be really serious. It’s much larger than it was before.

I rolled my eyes. I really don’t think so. It’s your imagination. Let it go. Again, I thought it was another vanity issue rather than a serious disease growing inside her.

She nodded and gave me her little girl smile. I suppose you’re right.

I know I am. What could I do about a bump? I wasn’t a doctor. Irene was right. This is my turn to celebrate. Was I too happy to care about my sister’s concern? We hugged real tight and went back to the wedding reception holding hands without another word about her lump.

There’s no one closer to me than my twin sister and there never will be. I’d do anything for her. As adults, we live our separate lives in different households, in different cities, with our own families. Being a twin means having always been a part of pair. That is who I am, one of two. The reason I’d been especially drawn to finding a mate. I was overjoyed to once again have a partner to share my everyday life. I didn’t want anyone, not even my twin, to take the happiness out of this day.

Even though Irene and I are not identical twins, we might as well be. From the moment of conception they say our hearts beat in unison. In fact, because our hearts beat as one—before sonograms—the doctor didn’t realize there were two of us until we arrived. I like to think we had our arms around each other for those first nine months. When you’ve been hugged by someone that long, there will always be an unspoken connection. It’s one of those things that can’t be fully explained. It really must be experienced to be totally understood.

Even when we were very young, we always knew how the other one was feeling or what they were thinking without using words. We have always been able to finish each other’s sentences—which I know can drive many people crazy. On the outside looking in, it must be confusing. To us, it’s natural.

We call this connection our twin telepathy. I can’t explain why or how we do it. Sometimes it takes awhile to tune into it. Other times, I’d rather ignore it. We can read each other like a book. Yet, after a lifetime of experiencing this, I sometimes doubt my gut feelings. Today, at my wedding, I chose to ignore it.

I felt a little selfish, wanting this occasion all for myself. It’s a difficult thing to have a sister you love more than life itself, someone you feel so close to at times you’re not sure where you end and she begins, and yet regret always sharing everything, including our name.

Twin girls coming unexpectedly were a shock to our young parents. Prepared for one, and Dad hoping for a boy, getting two girls at once was quite a surprise. There are five sisters in our family. We already had an older sister, Carol (currently in Colorado). Another sister, Sandra, had been born prematurely and died at two days. Some said we were a blessing, a new baby and another to replace the loss of Sandra. The fifth sister, Billie Jean (currently in Ohio) came along eight years later.

When arrived, a second of everything was suddenly needed. We’re told Dad had to scurry around to find another crib, more diapers (no disposables back then) and a second name. They took the one girl’s name they had chosen, Irene for Dad’s mother and Kay for an aunt, then divided it in two that rhymed. Irene, the first born, was given Fay for a middle name and I became Ilene Kay.

I admit I grew up thinking our parents liked Irene best. It seemed she could ask our parents for anything and get it. Then, like a ditto mark, they’d do something for me, too. Thinking back, I am positive we were all treated equal, but it was an insecurity that still haunts me today.

Because Irene was often ill (or grounded), she became a daddy’s girl. He took her under his wing, teaching her how to work on the car, helping him around the house. Dad even took her to the fights with him. Something Mom was never supposed to know about. Actually, it seemed that Irene was getting more attention when she was grounded for doing something wrong than we did for doing things right. Either way, a bond was formed between her and our father that has never been broken through all her years of rebel.

One of my earliest memories of Irene is when we were maybe four years old. We were supposed to be sitting quietly watching TV in the living room waiting for my mother to take us somewhere. Mom had already gotten us ready and slipped into the bath to soak and relax before getting herself dressed. After all, with three girls at such close ages, she didn’t have much time to herself. She has to seize the opportunity when she can.

As we sat there, clean and ready to go, it occurred to us what a wonderful obstacle course the living room furniture made. We could hop from couch to chairs to end tables going in circles without ever touching the floor. Irene hopped. I hopped. She hopped some more. The more we did it, the wilder we became. Faster and faster, I followed Irene as we raced around the room, giggling with glee.

Carol, being a more mature seven, knew the repercussions of such actions. You better stop that before Mom catches you, she warned in an all-knowing voice. Carol was 2 ½ years older than us and most of the time we listened to her. Just not today.

We didn’t listen. Mom was nowhere to be seen. I giggled so hard I started hiccupping which made Irene laugh all the harder as we raced. We were the Wonder Twins. No one could stop us. We were flying, our magical powers impenetrable.

In an instant, Irene made a misstep and sailed over the arm of the recliner, landing on the hard wood floor. Her arm bent in a way an arm is not supposed to go. She sat there in stunned silence. She turned five shades of green. Our eyes were round as saucers, too scared to know what to do. I can’t remember exactly what happened after that. Irene did shatter her elbow. To this day, her arm doesn’t turn like it should. Being a mother myself, I look back at what my mother went through and put up with raising the four of us and I am in awe.

That was the first time I participated in an act that ended up with Irene being injured. In the years that would follow, there would be more broken bones. I always seemed to play some role in the injury and felt as responsible for her injuries as anyone. I am surprised that social services weren’t called in with all her broken bones, stitches and bruises. They were never intentional.

Irene came down with rheumatic fever when we were eight. In junior high she was hospitalized with a murmuring heart and yo-yo temperature. I was terrified that I might lose her as the hospital battled to keep her fever down.

I didn’t have anything to do with those illnesses but I felt responsible and guilty for being well when she was ill. We shared the same womb. We ate the same food, lived in the same house, and played many of the same games. Why was I always the healthy one? What did I have that she didn’t? Was I somehow, without even knowing it, robbing her of what she needed to be well? Great guilt builders.

After the yo-yo temperatures were finally stabilized, the doctors said fevers like hers could cause brain damage. She must have heard that. When she returned home, Irene told me she had brain damage and therefore no longer had to try