In
March of 2010 just days before Easter I received devastating news
that I had Stage III invasive lobular carcinoma in my left breast. I
was only 30 years old. My life would be changing forever.
Following
my cancer diagnosis I immediately started on a course of treatment
that would take me over two years to completion. This included a
mastectomy, 18 weeks Taxotere and FEC chemotherapy then followed by
26 doses of radiation. Also in there was 52 weeks of Herceptin
followed by a clinical trial drug for another year, still yet to be
finished. In all this time I have visited hospitals for appointments
probably over 100 times and that's not including being admitted for
overnight stays (7 nights in total) and appointments at other
locations.
In
my experience and in talking to others the culmination of aggressive
treatment such as surgery, radiation or chemotherapy is the hardest
part, mentally. This is the part where we are left standing alone
saying “Is that it?”. The part where we feel abandoned and alone.
Apart of course from the odd follow up visit with the oncologist and
blood tests every now and then its pretty much game over, everyone
has moved on. In many many respects it IS a relief to walk out and
know we are not needing to come back and be filled with toxic fluids
that make us feel like death. Or burned a little more. But its also
hard after being cocooned inside a place of treatment and care to be
shoved out into the real world and left to deal with the mess that
our scarred, sick, burned, sometimes hairless body is. Not to mention
the mental game.
For
me what I found unclear was where the lines are in after care
treatment from the hospital. As I was to still be receiving Herceptin
after radiation for another 6 months I was to come into acutes every
three weeks for my IV infusion. In between that I would see my
oncologist from time to time. Where I really felt left alone was from
the nursing support staff, such as the specialist breast care nurses.
As
the Herceptin treatment went on I found myself getting copious
amounts of coldsores. My oncologist upon noticing this mentioned that
he had read somewhere a study noting that the Herceptin treatment
sometimes held back the body's ability to fight the herpes virus. I
noticed. The staff didn't seem duly worried by this however and I was
told to call in if I had more. Well they kept coming, increasing in
size and frequency as the Herceptin treatment went on. Zovirax, as
well as being expensive was useless. I was almost at a state where I
was ready to give up Herceptin altogether they were so bad. Then
things went up a notch.
I
started getting swelling in my lips. It happened once. I thought it
was strange but it went away after a few hours. A few weeks later it
occurred again, this time a little bit worse. It was happening late
at night as I was in bed, so I would wake up with a swollen lip like
I had been fighting in a boxing ring. Again it went away after a few
hours. A week later, again. This time I panicked. Really panicked. It
was late at night, I didn't know what to do and I was fairly certain
it was connected to the treatment I was having. What was my immune
system doing to me, how much of it was Herceptin? This time I could
feel the swelling begin to spread around my mouth to my entire lips -
I freaked out and had a panic attack so I rang acutes sobbing. As far
as I knew I was still under the care of my oncology team and I had
been told that any unusual activity was still to be reported in. As
it was after hours my call went straight up to the oncology ward. The
phone was answered by a nurse who sounded busy and stressed but not
overly concerned for me. I was asked what treatment I was having. I
said Herceptin and I was told it was busy and that a doctor would
call me back if they could. That was it. Nothing. No concern, no
advice to take myself anywhere else. Of course nobody did call me
back and I finally fell asleep with my swollen lips itching and
aching. Angelina Jolie I was not. When morning came I hightailed
myself over to my GP.
The
first thing he did was order me a course of acyclovir (antibiotics)
and instructed me to keep an eye on the swelling. Of course in no
uncertain terms did he say to get myself over to the hospital should
my tongue start swelling also. The swelling continued for a few
months, meanwhile I was wracking my brain to think what I could
possibly be allergic to. At one point one whole side of my face was
swollen right up to my forehead. I felt like no one wanted or cared
to help me out, especially my oncology team. I was pretty certain all
this had been triggered by the constant infusions and battery on my
immune system. SURELY others in my position had been affected by
this?
Eventually
after trial of elimination I discovered the swelling was caused by an
allergic reaction to preservative 220 which is on many wines, grape
juices and dried apricots. Since I've stopped ingesting anything with
this I have not had one instance of swelling – that was a year ago.
The
point I am making with this story though is to point out that along
this whole saga I felt so alone, so silly and so insignficant. I was
left to deal with it all by myself when I wasn't in the right frame
of mind to. Where were the breast care nurses? Why were they not
following me up to see how I was going, coping? I KNOW it was facial
swelling, not related to my breast cancer but it WAS related to my
treatment. Was anyone out there who understood me?
This
month the government announced a price increase in prescriptions to
aid the funding towards the cancer registry. All that made the papers
was the fuss over the price “hike” but not much about the cancer
funding. To me this is great news and I would like to thank Tony
Ryall for listening to the cancer community. Research says 1 in 3 of every New
Zealander has some experience with cancer, it is our country's leading cause of death and the problem we
are facing is that nurse specialists obviously have huge patient
numbers to deal with, oncologists appear to becoming few and far
between and waiting lists are only getting longer. The need for nurse
practicitioner roles in public hospitals to bridge the gap is urgent,
and I hope you, the DHB's, make these roles available. In turn this could
give the nurse specialists room to make new improvements where they
could then assist cancer patients to ease themselves back into
society and normal behaviour. It could work on keeping lines clear
for worries and thoughts to be expressed by patients and giving more
support to those who flounder. It is definitely a more holistic side
to the role of nurse. We understand there are staff shortages, that
its a busy public hospital with targets and huge patient loads to get
through but us as patients have real worries about life after cancer
treatment.
While
I'm at it, also on my wishlist is to see nurse specialists interact
with other local nurse specialists. As I dealt with two hospitals,
firstly for my diagnosis and surgery, then another for my
chemotherapy and radiation the communication between both teams of
nurse specialists could be improved. Lastly, in all of this, I
wondered if I was alone because of my age? There are great support
groups available for older breast cancer patients/survivors in New
Zealand but there is not much for the younger generation. This was
backed up by the North Shore Breast Cancer support group when I
enquired. They just don't have many of us was the answer I had. So
most of my support I received came from overseas forums and support
groups in the USA (such as Young Survivors Coalition) and other
bloggers that I met. New Zealand offers such little in the way of
support for younger women who have different needs from the older
generation. We have young families, we perhaps may still be waiting
to have children, the cancer is generally more aggressive. Could this
be an area that breast nurse specialists could assist in? Setting up
some type of support for these patients that feel alone and scared
and who just need someone to hear them?
The
treatment may stop but our patient mentality after many months of
care takes a while to shake off, so let us down gently. Or just keep
some lines open to listen to us. Please.
