#goodbyecancer

[9to5not]

My first day out for a walk after lumpectomy surgery on my breast. I'm feeling pretty good. Happy the worst is behind me! Thank you for your prayers and support my friends 💗💞💗 #breastcancer #goodbyecancer #kickingcancersass #warriorwoman 💪🏾💪🏾😊 (at Rohr Park)

[nesoink-blog1]

We love you Mama! :) #RadiationDay4 #GoodByeCancer #FaithfulThess (at UST Hospital, España, Manila)

[nesoink-blog1]

"Sorry if sometimes I look past you, There's no one beyond your eyes. Inside my head the wheels are turning. Hey, sometimes I'm not so wise. You are my heart and my soul, my inspiration, just like the old love song goes. You are one of the few things worth remembering, and since it's all true, How could anyone mean more to me, than you?" 🎶🎵🎼 #RadiationDay3 #GoodByeCancer #FaithfulThess

[tangledupintubes]

The Year in Review

2015 started off with such promise.  I spent New Year’s Eve at my usual haunt, the Farm, with my dear, dear friends, Tom and David.  

Trey was behind the bar, looking dapper as always, pausing for a selfie here and there in between mixing cocktails. The next afternoon I went over to Dogwood Manor to hang out with the guys again along with all the pooches and had a great day.

I had a good freelance gig I was enjoying (and making some overtime money from) with people I liked working with.  All was well.

By spring I had moved on to an even more promising gig that might have turned into something permanent had my boss been able to convince the powers that be our busy department needed expansion (it did).  It looked like I was finally getting somewhere. 

Then, derailment.  

My battle with leukemia has been well documented here, so I have little to add except to be utterly amazed, again, that I had fucking leukemia! Even now it doesn’t seem possible.

I saw an ad for St. Jude’s hospital yesterday with an adorable little bald girl wearing earrings.  She said she had leukemia, “a disease kids get.”  EXACTLY. How the hell did I catch that thing?  Oh right, a genetic defect convinced two of my chromosomes to switch places for shits and giggles.  Very funny 4 and 11. You tried to kill me.

But, lo, you did not succeed.  

It was only after much time had passed that I realized I was pretty close to death though.  A few days or a couple more weeks (at most, it’s hard to say) without treatment, and that would have been that.  

But once I was in the hospital, diagnosed and getting treatment, there didn’t seem to be the possibility that I wouldn’t beat it. After all, I remember thinking that first night in the ICU, I can’t die.  I haven’t been to Scotland yet.

And my friends wouldn’t hear of it.  And everyone rallied to raise money for me for the long months ahead (still in progress) where this vagabond freelancer would be out of commission.  And they looked after my cats, and brought grilled cheese sandwiches, and other treats, good cheer and support.   Now I’m out of the hospital and out of the woods.  I’m recuperating at Dogwood Manor until my doctor says it’s okay to go home.  I’m hoping it’s soon, but I’m grateful for Tom and David’s continued hospitality.  I’ve gotten to know the dogs a lot better (Foxy is by far the smartest and Huckleberry is completely neurotic).  I love them. They are all wonderful animals who have reinforced why I’m a cat person.

My blood counts are normal.  NORMAL.  My immune system still has a long way to go (no antibodies or t/b cells and my immunizations were wiped out with the transplant so keep your kids away from me), but my red blood count was 11.1 last week (we started this tale with a count of 5.9).  There is no trace of cancer.  The donor’s marrow has taken over, and so far we don’t have any complications (knock wood, cross fingers, rub that rabbit’s foot).  Still waiting for final cytology results from my last biopsy, but there is every reason to believe the defect is gone along with my original bone marrow.

I still have outpatient treatments and am slowly rebuilding my strength and appetite.  Still very bald, but my eyebrows should be fully re-grown in another week.  I can wear my contacts again and not feel like I look like Uncle Fester. It’s hard for me to see progress, but everyone assures me it’s happening. “Baby steps,” my sister keeps telling me.  I try to believe.

Days before diagnosis I lay in bed one night feeling horrible and alone and thinking no one on earth gave a shit about me.  Then I had my Frank Capra revelation in the hospital and knew without a shadow of a doubt that the opposite was in fact true.  I watched It’s a Wonderful Life the other day and cried at the end, like I always do.  Clarence’s gift to George was his copy of Tom Sawyer, with the inscription “Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.”  

Well, ain’t that the truth! It’s really the only thing that matters.  Thank you all, friends and family, for keeping me alive in 2015.  See ya next year.  I’ll be pretty thirsty once I’m approved to resume drinking, so clear your calendars. 

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[larahonnor]

GET YOUR TITS OUT! A YOUNG WOMAN’S BREAST CANCER STORY

Here is the film I made documenting my year of Breast Cancer. I want it to show the truth about Breast Cancer. It’s not pink and it’s not fluffy. It sucks big fat balls! And it can happen to anyone.

But finding the humour, even in the shittiest of times helped me so much. 

“You’re Nauseatingly Positive Lara,” a friend said to me. 

That made me chuckle.  

[larahonnor]

Hours after the C bomb was dropped I had to drive 5 hours to Manchester for work I had booked the next day. Dazed, confused and on auto pilot I got in the car and started driving. The first thing that came on the radio was this song. 

Flash forward 9 months. 

To celebrate the end of active treatment an amazing Ad Agency in London I helped do a cancer research pitch for, treated me to an all expenses paid night at The Pig Hotel on the New Forest. It was pure heaven. And who should be sitting at the table next to us at dinner? Mr James Bay himself. I was too shy to go up to him. 

But it made me smile.

[larahonnor]

14. End of Active Treatment... So What Happens Now?

I’m sitting opposite my Oncologist in the breast care unit at Kings. It’s been a month since I finished active treatment. I’ve entered no mans land. An empty desert. I’m sure I saw some tumble weed fly past me on the way here.

“I want you to be completely honest with me. I’m pretty morbid so I can take it. Tell me what the worst possible outcome could be and the best?” 

My Oncologist is great. She doesn’t mess about. She tells it how it is.

If my cancer comes back the best place to return would be my breast again. It’s an extension of my body away from any major organs. The next best place would be my brain. The tumour could be cut out or shrunk with radiotherapy. The next is bones and then lungs which could potentially borrow me more time. The worst place for my cancer to spread is my liver. When cancer spreads it is called Metastatic. This means it is incurable and treatment is about quality and the extension of life. I’m Triple Negative so no hormone treatment has any effect on my cancer, just chemo, radiotherapy and surgery. If it spreads, at worst I have 3 months left to live. At best 6 years. 

Now for some STATS. I love a good statistic. We type all my details into NHS PREDICT. My age, size of the lump, type of cancer, the fact that it hadn’t spread and what treatment I had.

My Five Year Survival Rate:

 80 out of 100 patients without chemo survive the first 5 years.

 90 out of 100 patients with chemo survive the first 5 years.

My Ten Year Survival Rate:

 73 out of 100 patients without chemo survive 10 years.

 86 out of 100 patients with chemo survive 10 years.

So a 90% survival rate after 5 years and a 86% survival rate after 10 years. 

My chances of getting hit by a bus are probably higher than that! I can live with that!

Is there a magic test I can have every now and then to make sure I’m cancer free?

NO

Instead I have to remain vigilant. Any unexplained pains, nausea, coughs, weight loss or breathlessness then I should go straight to my GP. But if I’m having those symptoms it’s going to be too late anyway, the cancer will have spread. 

Every person recovering from cancer knows that feeling. The slight headache - oh god has it spread to my brain? The little twinge in my back - oh no has it spread to my bones? The tenderness in my boob – shit, has it come back? 

Do you live in constant fear or do you just get on with it and enjoy the hell out of life? We’re all gonna die at some point. 

But the constant threat lingering over you with everyday little reminders niggling away in the back of your head = MIND FUCK. 

The 9 months of surgery, chemo and radiotherapy were tough as hell but at least my cancer was being treated. I was under constant observation by an expert medical team. 

Now..... tumble weed.

I have a mammogram once a year. Oh and I have to stay vigilant. Fuck cancer.

It’s no surprise then that 1 in 3 cancer survivors are left with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder:

http://www.healthline.com/health-news/cancer-treatment-leaves-survivors-with-ptsd-scars-031215

I meet with my lovely Surgeon. It’s almost a year to the day since he dropped the C bomb on me. I’m fascinated with my medical team. Day in. Day out. Treating cancer. Slicing. Examining. Stitching. Feeling. Deciding. Saving. Losing.

 Bad news day is every Thursday. Some days it can be just one patient being told they have breast cancer. Other days it can be up to 6. Everyone reacts differently apparently. I suddenly flash back to my moment and I remember vividly holding back tears with all my might.

 How the hell do you tell someone they have cancer?

 “Obviously it’s a hard part of the job” says my Surgeon. When he was a medical student watching a talk about how to break bad news to patients he thought he honestly couldn’t do it. “But knowing you’re potentially going to save that patients life, it’s all worth it in the long run.” When he started 35 years ago things were very different. There has been a 60% increase in the survival rate since then.

What a guy. Thank you for saving my life Mr Roberts.