I’m Not Ruling Out Anything That Might Help with a Breast Cancer Flare-up

Hoping to Keep My Right Breast

I’ve started calling my right breast Lula. The first syllable is based on my all-time-favorite-oncologists’ name, Lupe. The second syllable is a reference to a note on a musical scale.

I invented the name because an MRI torso scan revealed a new, cancerous tumor growing in my right breast. I realized I needed to name that breast to remind me to keep showing her more respect and care going forward.

First, I stopped using a band-aid as a bra to cover my one remaining nipple. Now I just let Lula hang free, which is not as dramatic as it sounds, given that I’m pretty flat-chested.

The other thing I’m doing is giving myself breast exams. I’ve always avoided doing them. They creep me out. I’ve been worried I might find something of concern.

I learned with my first cancer-lite diagnosis that a mastectomy was one possibility. Another is a lumpectomy in which only the tumor is removed. I’m adamant about doing whatever it takes not to lose or alter Lula, but much of what happens is out of my power.

One thing I can do is accept, if not welcome, the infusions of Enhertu, the new chemo medicine I’m given every three weeks. I’m also diligent about giving myself shots of white blood cells, known as neutrophils, in the stomach, for the seven days following each chemo infusion.

The shots have been much easier than I expected. They help my neutrophil count. remain higher

What’s challenging about the new Enhertu infusions is tolerating all the side effects. Nausea is mild the first day or two after the chemo infusion, but then it comes and goes over the following weeks. Nausea often shows up right before or right as I start preparing a meal. It will persist and intensify if I ignore it. So I take a prescribed nausea pill and continue cooking. The symptom slowly resolves. Sometimes I have to take a second med.

Exhaustion is equally random. Some days I drag myself out of bed. A small portion of my brain wakes with me. I start the morning dog walk grumbling about something. Too cold. Too hot. Too rainy or wondering how I’ll meet my six-mile daily goal I’ve set when walking even one mile exhausts me.

My lungs and heart work great so I can’t blame those organs for failing me. And I seem to have decent muscle strength. Mind you, I’m not running up any hills.

So why do my legs feel so heavy? Sometimes I devolve into asking, Whose body is this anyway?

I don’t recognize it as mine, as it ages influenced by breast cancer. Last year, I wouldn’t have hesitated before climbing or descending a ten-floor stairway. Lately, I find myself planning and calculating how to navigate my way up and down the 13 stairs to our second floor.

I know some of this relates to resuming chemo, which alters my sense of balance and makes me dizzy and light-sensitive. I’m losing my hair, strand by strand whereas it used to fall out in patches when I was previously on chemo. Normally, I would have shaved my head by now. Instead, I cover my head with a baseball cap. It’s hard to tell — when I have to take the cap off — if my ever-thinning scalp is scaring other people, or just me.

Seeing and feeling all these new side effects and physical changes impacts me more than it did ten years ago. Cancer was new then. I greeted symptoms with curiosity. It’s not that cancer was enjoyable, but I was open to all complications it brought. I was sure back then that I would be able to endure and transform whatever cancer threw my way, and I did.

Despite cancer’s intent to occupy my body, again, I’m still optimistic I can thrive. I notice I’m more easily fatigued. Exhaustion is another side effect of Enhertu infusions. Today I took two naps, which seems to have become the norm.

When I feel the weight of side effects, I focus on breathing deeply. I practice balancing exercises even when I’m off my game and end up tripping on the rug as I walk on tiptoe across the room or I hit the wall with my shoulder while I’m trying to balance with my eyes closed.

Family members tell me that they are praying for me, which I appreciate, although I don’t seem able to pray like I did when I was a kid. I tend to ask for help from ancestors and beloved friends who have died and express gratitude to them when I get even a vague response.

Then there is this other practice I do I seldom share with others. I throw three pennies to create a six-line hexagram from The I Ching, aka The Book of Changes. It was established in China in the second century, based on material that predated that time. I have been consulting The I Ching since I was in my early twenties after I found a copy of a book about The I Ching lying face-down in the middle of the street where I was riding my bike. I put it on a shelf and forgot about it for a year.

I first bought the English translation of the I Ching by James Legge, a Scottish missionary, and linguist who wrote his translation in the mid-18th century and later became the first professor of Chinese at Oxford University. The hexagram readings were centered on war and male dominance. Eventually, I found a feminist version of The I Ching I could better relate to.

Since my 20’s I have consulted the I Ching whenever I’m facing something overwhelming for a different perspective. It has helped keep me steady through all the manifestations of cancer, although that text, by itself, seems to be part of a myriad of tools I employ.

Music has been essential, as has spending time in Nature and walking with our dog, Tex.

Whatever trials and complications Lula and I encounter as we embark on this new right breast cancer chapter, I’m sure we will keep on thriving.

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