Karen's Story

I sat on the deck behind my house last July.  The sun felt good on my body and I was for the first time in many years feeling as if things were coming together.  I had been a single mother since 1997, divorced finally in 2000, during that time I had worked my way through a college degree at UC Davis, moved to Oregon and began to slowly develop a career.  I got my dream job in August of 2006 and commuted from Corvallis to Beaverton until June of 2007 because my oldest son was a senior at Corvallis High School.  I was enjoying a nice life, but was always under financial stress, but in July of 2008, I began to see that things were improving, loved my job, kids were happy, and I might even begin to get something in savings each month.  It was a lovely evening, except for one thing…

The lump.  A month or two prior I felt a lump in my left breast, I knew what it was, I had no doubt.  My mother took her last breath in my arms in 1986 after losing her battle with breast cancer, and a few months prior, I was with my uncle and his wife up until the last hours of her life, losing the same battle.  I of all people should have run to the doctor’s office, but I didn’t.  I wasn’t ready.  In October, 2008, I finally called my primary care doctor and things moved fast, diagnostic mammogram, core biopsy, met breast surgeon, met plastic surgeon, and on November 17th I had a bi-lateral mastectomy.  I was 48, a single mother, with no living parents, no siblings.  I had friends come from California on rotation and there was someone here for 4-weeks, co-workers provided donated leave, Fred Meyer gift cards, meals, and more.  I have never been so humbled, so grateful, and so thankful for help.  As a single parent for so many years I had lost the ability to ask for and accept help; I had counted on just myself.  At this time in my life I had to learn how to count on others.  They were all amazing.  I could not have come out of the surgery in such good shape if I didn’t have the support I did, and having adults staying at the house helped provide my boys with consistency, allowed me to rest and heal, yet the house was running normally.   When I first met my plastic surgeon he told me I would be surprised by who would be there for me, and who wouldn’t be.  He was right; some people I barely knew were wonderful some people that I’ve known for years all but disappeared.  I hold no malice, I understand that cancer is scary for everyone and some people can deal with while others cannot. My boys are older 15 and 20, and don’t want to think about their mother’s breasts or cancer, but we’ve had some very deep and powerful conversations and I know they will be great husbands one day.

My oncologist recommended Tamoxifen as my only treatment.  I was thrilled, but got a second opinion since my mother never did.  The second oncologist said I should do chemotherapy. Agony, turmoil, doubt. Ultimately, I decided to stay on the Tamoxifen, but I’m having a full hysterectomy and bi-lateral opherectomy, my choice.  Some say this is aggressive, but this is what feels right in my gut.  My team of doctors; breast surgeon, plastic surgeon, oncologist, and oncological gynecologist, and a third oncologist who I’ve asked to be someone I can run things by for his opinion, have all been brilliant.

As a “new” survivor, I’ve made a commitment to my future.  I now have a puppy which keeps me busy; I’ve applied to the Master of Social Work Program at Portland State University because I want to work with families finding their way through this journey.  I’m eating better and exercising more, and as a former master rower, I’m hoping to be able to row in a survivor boat either late this summer or in 2010. I want to volunteer for Komen in Portland. I hope to buy a house one day, watch my young men become grown men, and be able to dote on my future grandchildren.  Part of what I’ve already learned is that I’m not the same person, and that isn’t a bad thing. My priorities have changed, shifted, or become more refined.  I’m more patient, more aware of how quickly life can change. Learning how to deal with the sense of vulnerability, physical, emotional, spiritual, and financial changes that have come in my life are challenging and overwhelming, yet at times welcome.  So many things to learn, so many decisions to make, but I think of the women alongside me and before me and know they have been courageous, so can I.  I do still laugh, and I think that is a great sign!

I knew I had stepped into a new world the day I had my core biopsy and I was walked back to the area where other women were waiting for mammograms.  It was clear something different had happened to me; I was remaining in a gown and holding an ice pack to my breast.  I remember I really wanted a smile from someone, and none of them would make eye contact with me.  I had become something every woman fears: a woman with breast cancer. That was the beginning of the realization that not only would I change, but some of society would view me differently.  Now I make sure I smile at everyone, at the grocery store, doctors office, gym, everyone gets a smile, because I have no idea of what is happening in their lives, and the least I can do is give them a smile.