Best Feature in Print Quill 2010

8/7/2019 Best Feature in Print Quill 2010

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Herald Sun Saturday, October 23, 2010

How much do

you think you

could take?

One woman’s extraordinary year from hell.

Try this.

Your husband dies suddenly.

Then, while you’re still

grieving, you’re diagnosed

with breast cancer.

Would you keep fighting?



+

+4 Weekend October 23, 2010

WEEKEND COVER STORY04

One in nine Australian women will develop breast

cancer. This year, Jill Baker is one of these women,

diagnosed while still grieving the sudden loss of her

husband. Here is her extraordinary story.

DreadfultruthTheultrasoundof tissuein my leftbreast looksto me likea cirruscloud, but Isoon learn

that smallwhite wispysmudge is atumour.

PICTURESMANUELACIFRA

Itry to focus on something. A clock.Tick . Pause. Tick . Pause. Tick .I am outside an operating theatrefor my second surgery in a week.How long has passed? An hour.

I’m not sure. I’m desperate to talk tosomeone … anyone … about anything.

Thank God. Finally, a human being.He’s wearing a paper hat but he’s stilla person. He’s working in theatre today.

I want to talk to him.I blab about the first thing that

comes into my head … hospitalunderpants. I’ve never met this manbefore but I tell him exactly whatI think of paper underpants. How bigthey are; how badly they fit; howI wouldn’t put them on …

Hang on. We could have a problem.He has one simple medical questionwhich amounts to — are you goingcommando today. “No. I’ve got my ownundies on.’’ Instantly, his face changesfrom calm to concerned. “What sort of underpants are they?’’

“They’re blue.’’ Concern changesto angst. He wants to know whatthey are made of. I know they are ElleMacpherson’s — pale blue with red glassbeading at the front. Expensive. Wellcut. On sale on an overseas holiday.Good buy.

He isn’t interested in that. For me

to be safe, he needs to see the tag. I amin a room full of people. This man ina paper hat I have only just met is tryingto find the tag on my undies. Whenhe does the look changes from angst toexasperation. Sorry, they’re synthetic.They’ve got to go. This operating theatreis a nylon-free zone.

Someone asks if I need help takingthem off. I have one working armfrom the first surgery but I’ll take theunderpants off myself, thanks verymuch. It takes a long time. The theatrestaff are trying hard not to smile.A nurse appears and is clearly feelingsorry for me. She has a plastic bag.“Would you like to put your underpantsin here when you get them off?’’

It must be hard to tell someone theyhave cancer. I can’t imagine howI would do it. Would I be factual,

would I be sympathetic, would it help if I cried?

Specialist breast surgeon AssociateProfessor John P. Collins has done ita thousand times. That doesn’t makeit easy. It is Friday afternoon and heis ringing a patient with the results of abiopsy on a suspicious piece of tissue inher left breast. That patient is me.

To my untrained eye, the tissuelooks like a light cirrus cloud — a small,white, wispy smudge on an ultrasound.But Collins has seen those wispy bitsbefore. He’s 99 per cent certain thefluffy cloud is actually a tumour. Butthat isn’t enough. What his type-Asurgeon’s personality needs is proof — that the lump no one can feel isa malignant tumour.

It worries me when he says he doesn’twant to tell me results on the phone.I tell him I’ll be fine but when he ringsI just want to hang up. I can’t rememberthe words he uses exactly. I rememberhim saying: “Are you still with me?’’

I say yes but I’m actually not sure. Hehas seen me cry once and I don’t wanthim to hear sobs today. I want to bematter of fact. No problem. All in a day’swork.

The biopsy result is 100 per centcertain: that fluffy cloud is a tumour.The wispy bits need to come out. Collinsstarts talking about radiation andpossibly chemotherapy. I dismiss thisas nonsense. He’s crazy. Then he says

something so shocking, I can’t believehe is saying it.Based on what we know now — and

there is a lot we don’t know — you havebetween a 60 and 70 per cent chance of not dying from breast cancer in the nextfive years. I don’t remember anythingelse he says after that. I slide down thewall and curl up near the phone.

Where is my husband when I needhim most? Twelve weeks ago I foundhim dead on our bedroom floor. I keepremembering our first dinner out – ata really bad pub over half-frozenchicken parmigiana. The day whenI think I really fell in love with him.He’d just told me he could drink a glassof water while standing on his head.

The phone is on the floor near mytoes. I try to focus on what the surgeonreally said. I know Collins told me thatmost women don’t die of breast cancerbut none of that matters. My mind goes

over it … again and again. Am I going tobe alive in five years time?

It is 5.45am and still pitch black.A friend drops me at EpworthFreemasons Hospital in East

Melbourne for my first ever operation.She wants to come in but I have to dothis on my own. Every fear receptor inmy brain is on high alert. I want to run.I keep telling myself it is OK to put my

life in John Collins’ hands … but thismorning nothing about that feels OK.On the third floor, a nurse directs

me to a change room. There is a neatbundle in the corner that looks likeChux Superwipes. I wonder what thepiles of dishcloths are for and looksurprised when she says change intothem. There’s a gown, a hat, two papershoes and something I don’t recognise.It would go around me three times.

I take off my clothes but leave thebig white bloomers in the corner. Thenurse isn’t in the mood for peoplerefusing to put on paper underpantsso early. I try to reach out for thembut my arm isn’t working. It takesenormous concentration to grab thosebig bloomers and pull them up aroundmy bottom.

I am trying hard to be Jill thismorning. But I’m not Jill at all. I’mthe first in a long list of women being

operated on by John Collins. Each of us has just learnt we have cancer. Someof us will have better survival odds thanothers but none has any guarantee.

I don’t want to be first on hisoperating table this morning. I don’twant him to put his Number 3 silverscalpel blade on my skin. I just wantto go home.

What I want doesn’t matter. John

Collins is here. Normally he would lovetalking golf (and play with just aboutanyone) but at 6am today, he is allbusiness. I wonder if he gets nervousbefore he makes an incision or if he’sever felt squeamish at the sight of blood.But there’s no time for any of that. JohnCollins is ready to put silver scalpel onpearly skin.

There’s no music in his operatingtheatre. A good operation is usuallya quick operation and there isn’tmuch time this morning to get to thefiner points of golf and those soggyIrish greens.

The surgeon I’m so scared of hasclearly done his job. His team knowwhat a mess their first patient really is.The anaesthetist tells me step by stepwhat he’s doing to make sure I feel safe.The theatre nurse doesn’t leave me fora second. The assistant surgeon holdsmy hand while I go under. Then Collins’

face is close to mine. “Be confident,’’ hewhispers. It’s the last thing I hear.

It is the hot pink cancer. JaneMcGrath changed our lives whenshe died from breast cancer. Shane

Crawford (That’s What I’m WalkingAbout) treks to raise money for it. It isthe “in’’ disease: the affliction behindso many fun runs, jogs and walks, thescourge that celebrities like to be spottedfighting. Everything about it looks likefun these days except — of course — thedisease itself.

It is the second most common cancerin women. One in nine will be diagnosedwith it. Most will survive five years. A lotwill survive longer but one in 38 will die.Treatment will take weeks, months oreven years. And there are no certainties.Want to hear someone hedge their bets?Ask an oncologist if your breast cancerwill come back.

The disease itself should be called

the public cancer rather than the pinkone. You can’t disguise it. Well, youcan’t hide the ravages of its treatmentanyway. Suddenly everyone knows youare sick. Many wonder if you are dying.You go from looking like ever yoneelse to looking like a victim. Frail. Ill.Vulnerable.

I’ve never liked pills. Piles of them —in packets and little tubs with colouredlids — now sit on the dresser. Dinnertastes like licking the top of a tin can.Coffee — don’t even ask. My favouriteplace now makes it so weak it is almosta waste of time. Your tastebuds becomeat one with any three-year-old. A friendgives me steamed vegetables in a cheesysauce. Forget George Calombaris and allthat fancy Press Club stuff. These littlecheesy pots are simply the best thingI have ever tasted.

THE JILL BAKER STORY IN MY OWN WORDS

The bigCand me

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http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/best-feature-in-print-quill-2010 3/8October 23, 2010 Weekend 5

COVER STORY WEEKEND 05

I DON’T WANT TO

BE FIRST ON HIS

OPERATING TABLE... I DON’T WANT

HIM TO PUT HIS

NUMBER 3 SILVER

SCALPEL BLADE

ON MY SKIN. I JUST

WANT TO GO

HOME



+



I no longer talk the currency of myjob — about who has done what towhom in Melbourne. I tell friends aboutmy blood count, what my bone marrowis doing and how many of my toenails

are falling out (three so far).Suddenly, a doctor isn’t someone yousee once a year. Your mood is governedby what John Collins says aboutpathology results. Words like “margin’’and “clear’’ are all important. I’ve alwaysknown that size matters but now itreally, really does. The tumour is 18mmand John Collins needs to make surethere are clear surgical margins rightaround the cancer.

I worry whether he’s done that butshouldn’t have wasted my time. That’sa piece of cake. It’s the other thing that’sthe problem. The thing I haven’t heardof — the sentinel node biopsy.

To non-surgeons like you and me,it’s a simple test. You have radioactivegunk injected in your arm so that— using something that looks likea Geiger counter — the surgeon canfind the lymph node closest to thetumour. That’s the one where cancer ismost likely to have spread. He cuts it outfor testing.

On the ultrasound, there is no sign of my cancer having spread so John Collinsis confident — but never certain — thenode will be clear. He hasn’t told mewhat he really thinks after surgery: thesentinel node is bigger than expected.But there’s no point worrying me withthat — as every good doctor does, he’swaiting for pathology results.

A few days later, I decide my odds aregood. I put on my favourite blue jeansand head out for a walk. I’m feelinghealthy, even a little confident. I getback home and pop the kettle on beforeI check the phone.

There are three calls from JohnCollins. That can’t be good. I wonderwhether to ring back but decide I amtoo scared. Ten minutes later I call. Hecomes on the phone straight away.

The margin is good. Tick. Thesentinel node is not. Cross. The node

is highly malignant. He wants to seeme — soon — to talk about anotheroperation.

John Collins describes the pathologyresults as “mixed’’. The results aren’t“mixed’’ at all. They are devastating.They mean the cancer has spread. Theymean more surgery. They mean scansof organs and bones to find any spotsof cancer somewhere else. They meanradiation treatment. Chemotherapy.What John Collins calls “mi xed’’ resultsmean my life now depends on a singlegrim set of statistics. I may be here inMay 2015, or I may not.

Forget 2015. I just want to maketomorrow. I’ve got drainage tubeshanging out everywhere and drips

running in. I’m too scared to look atwhat is left under the sheets. There isonly one visitor I want to see andI know he isn’t coming.

Nurse Jan Cheyne is perched on my

bed. She has two grown-up kids and analley cat called Chester who — on a badday — can have a mean streak when thegrandkids come around. She’s workedwith John Collins for years as a breast-care nurse. She tells you what you reallyneed to know about breast cancer.

Like what your breast will look likewhen John Collins has finished with it.How big the scar will be? Will the nipplelook OK? And does a mid-60s bloke likeohn Collins have the same idea of a

“cosmetically acceptable breast’’ as youdo? It is his term and I want to ask himwhat he thinks makes a good-lookingbreast. But I’m not sure how to.

I ask Jan instead. She thinks itis hilarious. And when she explains,I guess it makes sense. He looks atbreasts all day and has a better ideathan just about anyone of what makesa breast look good after going underthe knife.

John Collins tells women they havebreast cancer. Jan Cheyne picks up thepieces afterwards. Twice a weekhe operates on women who have justfound out they have the Big C. Jan ison the end of their beds af ter surgeryeach night.

She checks dressings, pulls outdrainage tubes, and perks you upwhen you are down. It doesn’t stopthere. She sizes me up and decidesshe’s worried how I will cope. John

Collins isn’t the only one with a type-Apersonality. Will I go back to work toosoon? Why am I asking when I can runagain? Why won’t I look at brochureson buying a wig.

I’m struggling to even mention thewords breast cancer let alone admit thatI’ve got the Big C so she does somethingfor me now that I need more thananything else. She hands over a big boxof tissues.

Where the hell is he? Why didhe have to die now? I can’t dothis without him — I can’t.

I know he isn’t coming to see me. I keeplooking at my wedding ring but I knowthere’s nobody who will rub it softlywhen they hold my hand.

There is never a good time to bediagnosed with breast cancer. Therecan’t be a worse time than just afteryour husband has died. Even peoplewho deal with cancer every day are

stuck for words when they hear. Theoncologist is impressed that I amvertical and talking. I tell John Collinshow scared I am of doctors followingmy husband’s unexpected death.

I have practised this conversationmany times but there is no easyway to tell him. He might be one of Melbourne’s most eminent surgeons butI don’t want to put my life in his hands.Does it help to know he’s done thisoperation many times. I say no. Does ithelp to know how routine this is? No.I suspect he’s not sure what to suggestnext. His medically-trained mind is allabout solving problems. Today I amsomething that needs fixing but he isrunning out of ways to fix this.

It isn’t his problem that I kissed myhusband goodbye in the morning butnever got to tell him how much I lovedhim that night. Not his problem at all.John Collins has an 18mm carcinoma to

get out. He needs to get me to the pointwhere I make all the right decisionsabout treatment. I’m not sure how to dothat but know I have to do it by myself.John Collins can’t help.

I spend time on my own trying todecide what to do. I’ve always reallyloved life but life after my husband’sdeath isn’t like the life I had before.It’s like the colour has faded from everyday. Can I be bothered with surgery?France looks nice. I wonder if JohnCollins has ever got a postcard fromSt Émilion sent by a runaway patient tooscared to go under the knife.

I feel I can hardly talk to my friends.They want to tell me stories of survival.But I don’t feel like any of thosepeople. I feel very small. Scared andinsignificant. I am not sure what sort of life I want. Am I better to live a shortlife without the doctors I fear? Can theyhelp me, anyway? It keeps me awakenight after night. I’ve always seen tearsas a release. Now they offer no relief.

My mind — usually so sharp andlively — nearly gives up on me now. I’mtrying hard to think my way throughthe alternatives. Tell the doctors to nickoff or let them do their stuff?

It is hard to imagine how cancerspreads. I think of it as a dandelionat the height of spring. A puff of

wind and all those tiny white parachuteswaft about. They float until they lodgesomewhere far away — in people’slivers, in bones, lungs, all over the joint.

Nothing about getting breast canceris straightforward. For a start, no oneknows how you get it, whether it hasspread, what treatment you need andwhether any of that will make anydifference.

And size isn’t the only importantthing about a tumour. Every cancer alsohas a stage. Stage one is very good, stagetwo is worse, stage four is awful. Mytumour is stage two. Stage one would bemuch better.

Not only that, my cancer has spread.That’s bad too.The simple facts are these. Surgery

usually cures 75 per cent of womencompletely but 25 per cent find thecancer comes back. Problem is no oneknows who are the 75 and who arethe 25. So everyone gets the Big Cdemolition job.

One operation to remove a tumourthat hasn’t spread usually meansradiation therapy. Anything that’sspread means chemotherapy. I try theoncologist out on whether he wouldrecommend I skip the chemo. It isquickly clear I’m wasting my breath.

This morning, I realise that I’ve neveractually met an oncologist before. I’msure this is most unfair because they doamazing work but I’ve never imaginedmeeting one would be much fun.

My medical oncologist is MichaelGreen. To me even his letterhead isscary. He’s an associate professor and

a consultant in haematology, medicaloncology and palliative care. Heintroduces himself as Michael in thecorridor of the surgical ward. I tell himI’ve been dreading seeing him.He smiles and says his wife says thatall the time. I want to say his wife isobviously a woman of great intelligenceand fine judgement but I’m toofrightened. I say nothing.

He pulls a chair in front of mine. I tryto move mine back but it is tight againstthe wall. I want to flee but there is noroom to go anywhere. He talks forwhat seems like a long time — aboutthings I don’t want to hear. Thingsstarting with C — cancer, chemotherapy— and things starting with S — beingsick, being scared and, for god’s sake,survival odds. I’m not sure I can callhim Michael.

Red shockerThis is thepinky-redchemotherapydrug that ispumped intomy veins. Ilearn to dreadit as it makesme really sickfor days.

Date withdestinyI grab myfavouritelipstick and

scrawl thedate of my lastchemotherapytreatment onthe mirror.Only when thatday arriveswill I finallybe free.


>




I FEEL LIKE

CRYING BUT SHUT

MY EYES INSTEAD.JUST DO IT. DON’T

LET ME SEE MY

HAIR ON THE

GROUND. DO IT

QUICKLY. DON’T

STOP



+


WEEKEND COVER STORY08THE JILL BAKER STORY IN MY OWN WORDS

The next time I see him is in Suite117 at Freemasons Medical Centre inVictoria Parade. This is his home turf.

There are no photos of his three grown-up boys on the big wooden desk but anover-sized black thing — stamped ingold with the words oncologist’s deskset — nearly covers it. Before he comesin, I wonder what he really thinksabout my prognosis — how long I’lllive for and the chances of my cancercoming back.

My heart beats faster when he closesthe door and sits down. This is a placeI don’t want to be. The waiting roomis full of people I don’t want to be like.Sick people, people with wigs, peoplewith scarves, people who are worried,people who can’t get better, and lotsof fighters (someone please help them)who are trying to stay well.

Unlike many of them, I have hair.I feel myself tug at it while Michaelis talking. It makes no difference.As he would say, you play the cardsyou’ve been dealt. My hair has to go.And whether I like it or not, I now

have an oncologist and I will be backin Suite 117 every three weeks for thenext six months.

My future has been reduced tomedical hieroglyphics. This is what Jillhas become. “She is a pre-menopausalwoman,’’ the letter starts. Diagnosis:T1 NI MO (ER + PR + HER2 —).What’s worse is I know what thosemedical squiggles mean. I have whatMichael Green says is an “intermediateprognosis’’ type of breast cancer.

God, what does that really mean?I ask about the only word starting withC I really want to hear — cure — butno one in this new cancer world wouldever use a four-letter word like that.

I try not to be scared but thechemotherapy Michael wants to giveme puts the fear of God into me. I aska friend to come with me to my nextappointment. He has strict instructionsto talk about Michael’s beloved Saints

for as long as possible, so there is lesstime for Michael to talk about thethings that scare me so much.

I tell Michael I had burst into tearsbefore I made it to the carpark lasttime I saw him. What I don’t tell himis I now have an oncologist sectionin my wardrobe — expensive stuff splurged on for the courage to walkthrough his office door. ThenI say the only thing that has ever madehim look uncomfortable. Could he beless oncologist like? He’s a doctor.I know he’s here to help me, but weboth know this treatment will make mereally ill.

Every woman knows hair matters.Mine is going to fall out. Everylast strand on my head, every lash

around my eyes and yep, even the hairdown there. But in a quirk that showschemotherapy must have been designedby a man everyone tells me that I’ll still

have to shave my legs.I try for days to make that one phonecall. I need to ring Desleymarie atTremayne hair salon. I chicken outand ask a friend to do it. Desley is great.She comes in before the salon opens soI don’t have to let anyone see mewithout hair. She’s told me what wig tobuy (human hair only please) and she’llcut it after she’s shaved my head. I feellike crying but shut my eyes instead.Just do it. Don’t let me see my hair onthe ground. Do it quickly. Don’t stop.

Desley says it won’t take long and itdoesn’t. The Number 1 blades do theirstuff. She says my bald head is a greatshape — and who knew about thosesmall pinned-back ears? She quicklyputs the wig on as customers arecoming in. Will anyone pick that theshiny long hair is not mine?

The next time I see Michael my headis covered with a scarf. I feel like a

refugee from the new Sex and the Citymovie. Friends call me the gypsy or— with my big hoop earrings — the

’60s hippie child. I blend in perfectly— I AM one of those people inMichael’s waiting room.

What I’m getting is I suspect thecommon or garden treatmentfor many women with early

breast cancer — not that any doctorwould ever call it that. Six lots of chemotherapy, each three weeks apart.

The possible side effects on thepatient information sheet for thethree-in-one combo for the first threetreatments go for pages. Nausea andvomiting, increased risk of infection,diarrhoea, mouth ulcers, tiredness,loss of appetite, sensitivity to sunlight,hair thinning, nasal mucosa irritation,bladder irritation, urine discolourationand heart muscle damage. I decide noneof that is going to happen to me.

Each of the drugs attacks cancer cellsin a different way. But none of that iswhat you need to know about my three-

in-one chemo poison. The only thingthat’s important is the pinky-red stuff.

Michael’s office — with that big blackoncologists’ desk set — is only part of his domain. Across the corridor is theday oncology unit where I will havechemotherapy. Fourteen or so comfyarmchairs are filled with people hookedup to drips.

Everyone who works here is allsmiles. Great jeans Jill. Wig is fab. Youdon’t need eyelashes. You look great.Your oncologist is absolutely lovely.A teddy bear. Everyone can get throughchemotherapy. We just have to convinceyou that you can get through it.

But underneath it all everyone inday oncology knows that none of theirpatients wants to be here. MarisaStevens, the nurse who runs the place,smiles as she asks whether I am OK towalk back across the corridor to see thatteddy bear of an oncologist. She’s clearly

not sure about my answer because shetakes my hand and walks me back toSuite 117 herself.

Patients here talk about things toeach other that they’d never tell anyoneelse. One woman says she told heroncologist her hip was hurting. Hesaid don’t worry. When should I startworrying, she asked. His reply: whenbone starts grating on bone. We bothsmile and then burst out laughing.

If breast cancer is the pink disease,the pinky-red chemotherapy drug is thetalk of day oncology. Everyone dreads it.They may not know its name but theyknow its colour and how many days itcan make you really sick.

Today is my first turn to get the pink-red shocker. They weigh me and tell mehow much they like my shoes. Nothing’shappening yet but I start to feel sickanyway. A nurse puts a cannula into myarm. As a doctor would say, you’ll justfeel a small pinprick.

I wish. My veins are smarter thanthat. They seem to know all about thischemotherapy rubbish and are makingthemselves scarce. The nurse puts aheatpack on my arm to make my veinsstick out. She presses any that dare toshow. They need to feel springy nothard. The cannula goes in. Ouch. Itstarts like a sharp prick but then likegouging out my vein.

The pink stuff takes only minutes togo through the cannula but the effectslast for days. I don’t vomit but I do retch— violently.

By lunchtime two days later I feelrotten. I feel like vomiting when I wakeup and the same before I go to bed.I take all the anti-nausea drugs. I gothrough the side effects sheet and tickthe ones I’ve got. I stop eating. Mymouth is getting ulcers and my stomachfeels red raw. My urine has turned redand just the whiff of food makes me run

for the toilet. I can’t believe there arefive more treatments to go.

Somehow I need to take control.I grab one of my favourite lipsticksand write a date on the bathroommirror — September 9. That’s my lastchemotherapy. The date on which I willfinally be free.

Chemotherapy two. Done.Chemotherapy three. Done.After each Michael tells me how

good I look. My idea of looking good isgreat hair, high heels and a new dress.I suspect Michael thinks I look good if I am vertical, have my eyes open andcan talk.

But he may be right — one of myfriends is bald and is offered tea,sandwiches and plates of fruit while wewait in day oncology. I have my wig ontoday and no one offers me a thing.

I’m home now and follow Marisa’sadvice to walk every day. I have a longwalk, a middling walk and a short walk.These days I need to stop for a rest fourtimes during the short walk. Today I’mhalf way round when I feel sick. Hourslater I’m burning up one minute andshivering the next. I take my clothesoff and lie with my back against an icy

window. When I wake in the morning,my temperature is 38.5.

I get to day oncology just after 7am.Michael arrives to find something thatlooks like a drowned rat on the bed.Pathetically, I ask if there’s anything hecan do. No problem for him. He patchesme up over a few days in hospital and

tells me later this isn’t what he wouldcall a “major incident’’.A few weeks later I know what he

means by that “major incident’’. I’m ata GP’s at 5pm on a Friday. He knowssomething is wrong when I hold thewall to walk. He doesn’t tell me mytemperature until I ask (39.3) but wantsto call an ambulance. I have septicaemiaand this time Michael helps fix meup by phone from interstate late onFriday night. I feel really sick but asthe second oncologist I have ever metsays cheerfully the next day: “Yep,it is completely normal that you feelABSOLUTELY terrible.’’

Once on the mend, none of thisactually matters. I am vertical and upto the next chemotherapy. Everyonewho has had chemo tells me the nextdrug Taxotere is downright friendlycompared to the pinky-red shocker.

It is made from the bark of the

Home at lastWith myscarf, Ifeel likea refugeefrom thenew Sex

and the City movie, butthis littleglowingstatue (right)given to meby a friendmakes mefeel safe.




Breast Cancer Australia

recommends womenperform the following

self-examination

monthly and record

observations.

LOOKWhile standing in front of ✱

the mirror with shouldersback and hands on hips,perform the following steps:Check for changes in size,✱

shape and colour of bothbreasts.Note if there is any dimpling,✱

puckering or bulging of

skin.Be aware of whether the✱

nipple has changed positionor if it has inverted.Monitor for redness,✱

soreness, rashes or swelling.It is also recommended to✱

do this while the arms areraised in the air.

PRESSApply minimal pressure with✱

the thumb and forefinger toeach nipple and check fordischarge (milky, yellowfluid or blood).

FEELFeel your breast while lying✱

down, sitting, standing or inthe shower.Use a method which you✱

become familiar with and

record your observations ona monthly basis.When checking the left✱

breast use your right hand(right breast use your lefthand) and work gently onthe top layer and then a littlefirmer as you press deeperinto the tissue with yourmiddle three fingers feelingdown to the ribcage.Be sure to check all over✱

your breast with a sequenceyou can remember. Fromthe armpit to your cleavage,and from the top of thecollarbone to the top of yourstomach.All the time feeling for✱

irregular lumps, lumpinessor thickening, particularly inone breast only.

QUICK CHECKA lump, lumpiness or✱

thickening in the breast orarmpit, especially if it is inone breast only.A change in the size or✱

shape of your breast.Skin changes such as✱

dimpling or redness .Nipple inversion or✱

discharge.A change to the nipple, like✱

a rash, ulcer or itchiness.An unusual or persistent✱

pain.

Source: Breast Cancer

Australia

Chinese yew tree. The nurse tells me inrare cases patients may have a severereaction. It seems I am a rare case.

She turns the IV on. It takes twominutes. My face turns tomato red.I manage three words: “ I can’t breathe.’’I can’t see either — my world goesblack, then pink, then pale pink with

little bubbles. The nurse looks roundfor the oxygen and turns the IV off.Someone is taking blood pressure on myleg. It goes up to 225 over 155.

I think a woman next to me starts tocry. I wonder whether she thinks I amgoing to die. I wonder whether today is

the day. Of course, Marisa knows better.She puts heat packs on my back andgently pats my head.

They give me steroids and theantihistamine Phenergan to pump meup and slow me down. They wait anhour and start the drip again. My bodyhas already done everything to stop theTaxotere going in. It has nothing left.

I make an appointment to seeMichael to tell him I hate that Chineseyew tree stuff. He still thinks it’s thebest thing to treat my cancer and if we switch to something else — well, itcould be worse. He writes a note to doseme up even more before the next lot.

Nothing works. Next time is samedrug, same reaction. Today I’m cryingwhen Michael walks across from Suite117. I hate anyone seeing me like this.Next day, I wonder whether to tell himchemotherapy six is off. But I don’t …I’m not sure why except could I live withmyself if I refused treatment and thenmy cancer came right back?

Hallelujah. The date on the bathroommirror has arrived. One part of me is

doing cartwheels that September 9 is

finally here but I dread what mighthappen when the Chinese yew stuff hitsmy veins.

Michael is working to fix my weirdtree bark problem. He hopes to fool mybody into not reacting. It takes abouttwo minutes to show he can’t. They tryagain 10 minutes later. Same drug, samereaction. The nurse has only got 20mlin and there’s a hell of a lot to go.

My favourite oncologist appears— super calm as always — sucking on acan of soft drink. “You are ridiculouslysensitive to this drug,’’ he offers. I’mslurring my words because I’m so dosedup. I’m having trouble moving my headand my heels have fallen off. “You mustl-e-e-r-v-e that drug,’’ I think I manageto tell him, sounding completely drunk.He looks like he would like to say morebut knows I am still too scared. “Youshould see what it does to cancer cells.’’

For some people, 2010 is the year

of the Pies. For me it is somethingelse. I’m trying to learn about

living without the man I loved andabout living with a new thing calledcancer. Everyone has worried this yearabout how I would survive. You needeveryone supporting you with breastcancer. My number one supporter hasonly just died.

I stop wearing my wedding ringin hospital so people don’t ask mewhen my husband is coming to visit.I always miss him. I want him to kissme when I come out of surgery. I knowhe would hold my hand when the pinkchemotherapy junk is going in. I needhim to tell me I still look like a womanwithout hair or eyelashes. When it takesme four goes to stand up from the couchI want him to laugh at the living wreckI’ve become.

I STOP EATING. MY MOUTH IS

GETTING ULCERS AND MY

STOMACH FEELS RED RAW. THERE

ARE FIVE MORE TREATMENTS TO GO


>

I’m a

survivorBuyingexpensiveclothes givesme the strengthto carry on — I now havean oncologistsection of mywardrobe (top).I can’t bearto open thisFreddo (above),an end-of-chemo presentfrom nurseMarisa Stevens.


http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/best-feature-in-print-quill-2010 8/810 Weekend October 23 2010

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eyelashes and — as he would still say— I have to play the cards I’ve beendealt. I have a 3cm scar on my leftbreast but these days I know that I’llalways look good if I’m vertical, eyesopen and talking. Sometimes I do stillcry myself to sleep at night but the softglow of that little statue near the bed isalways there to keep me safe.

And you know what? Despite all of

it, I’m still very much me.In this whole awful year, therewas actually only one night whenI thought I might not make it. I vomitedall afternoon. No idea what to do orwho to ring. Finally I called my bestfriend. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.He won’t remember this but he saidsomething that night that I’m nevergoing to forget — “JB, you are going tofight this’’.

Of course he hasn’t looked at wispyclouds on ultrasounds like John Collins.He can’t tell me what weird yew treedrugs do to pesky cancer cells likeMichael Green. He doesn’t understandhow radiation beams can penetrate mybreast killing any cancer cells that maybe left. Or why taking a hormone pillfor the next five years can help stop mycancer coming back.

But then he knows the only reallyimportant thing. He knows me.


But if he is gone, my friends try tobe everywhere. One turns up with hermother-in-law’s famous chicken noodlesoup. Another’s sure I’m still not eatingso gets me a sandwich and fruit saladfor lunch every day. Two others make ittheir job to make sure I eat them.

A friend knits me a beanie to keepmy head warm. A girlfriend gives mea tiny purple statue and a note I willnever forget: “He glows just a little inthe dark so put him beside your bed soif you wake up at night you will alwaysfeel safe.’’

They do shopping. They come forcoffee. They grab my arm when I amtoo sick to walk far by myself. They hugme when I cry. My boss laughs aboutanother bright idea to help. “I’ll put a

bucket in my office. Come in here tovomit and then you can get straightback to work.’’

Two friends take me to everychemotherapy. One is there when JohnCollins tells me I have breast cancer. Hetells me I look hot when he first seesme in my wig. Months later he says thesame when I am too sick to wrap a scarf around my bald head. None of it is true,of course, but who cares?

The chemotherapy is done. I haveMarisa’s chocolate frog to proveit. I know it is silly but when I go

home after chemotherapy six she givesme a folder with a Freddo taped to thefront. The first words inside say: “Growhair, grow.’’

I am so relieved it’s over I don’t knowwhat to do first. I start ringing myfriends, to say nothing very much —except I AM STILL HERE.

I don’t eat for a week. I don’t sleepeither and when I do, I wake up shaking.I cry all the time. How can anyonehave so many tears? I need my husbandmore than ever. “Sweetie, it ’s over,’’ hewould say. “What you need is a glass of Heathcote shiraz.”

I want to feel normal. I’m not hungrybut I go to a café and order lunch.A friend takes me to his gym to seeif I can run. I love anything that meansI have to plan to be around. Dinnertomorrow. Sure. Drinks next Thursday.Love to.

I look at myself in the mirror everyday and decide the person lookingback at me must be a ghost. I’m gaunt,deathly pale and those tortured eyes —ill, you look like you have cancer.

It’s not over. I have six weeks of radiation treatment to go and five yearsof hormone therapy. They have inkedthree pinpoint tattoos on my breast sothe radiation beams hit the right spot.

Suddenly I have new respect for BenCousins.Michael has told me my radiation

guy is an outstanding individual. I tellDr Michael Guiney that I have beenkeen to meet him because I’ve nevermet an outstanding individual before.He smiles. “Radiation oncologists arethe good guys of the oncology world.’’Michael Green scoffs when I tell him— you don’t believe everything youhear, do you?

Six months ago, I didn’t care muchabout oncology. It was a world I didn’twant to know — even for a minute.Now I understand a little of what thosewho try to beat cancer actually do andI know that if I ever need help againthey will try everything to keep mealive and free of the Big C.

I will see John Collins or MichaelGreen every three months for twoyears, and six monthly after that. They

will examine my breasts and decide if the cancer has come back.

I haven’t had the guts to ask butknow they would both say there are no100 per cent guarantees for me. Theprognosis is good but I’m sure they’vesaid goodbye to lots of people like me.

Dying. I’ve never thought about itmuch. Why … well I’ve always beenmuch too busy living. There was a

mum, dad and sister to grow up with,newspapers to sweat over, farms to fallin love with and a husband and histhree great girls to adore.

These days I know much more aboutwhere I’m heading in this new scarycancer world. It isn’t about whetherI win this battle. For me it is going tobe about how I live the fight. I wouldlike to live to 2015 and beyond but if I don’t … well you don’t have to be80 to have lived a great life.

My mind has cleared from the fogof chemotherapy. My new life won’tbe governed by a call from JohnCollins about pathology results,and I’m sure Michael Green can doall the worrying for me about thelevel of those little white cells calledneutrophils in my blood.

But I know now I AM one of thosepeople in Michael Green’s waitingroom. I do wear a scarf. I don’t have

13,600 cases✱More than 13,600 new cases of breast cancer are expected this

year. New diagnoses are alsoexpected in 106 men.

2800 women✱More than 2800 women will diefrom the disease in a single year,

making it one of the leading causesof cancer-related death in females.

13% 20-44✱ About 13 per cent of new casesare among women aged 20-44, 61

per cent in women aged 45-69 and26 per cent among women over 70.

Over 96%✱More than 96 per cent of women will survive atleast one year after diagnosis, and almost 87 per

cent will survive five years or more, a 15 per centincrease since the 1980s.

National BreastCancer FoundationAustralia’s only nationalnot-for-profit organisation thatraises funds to support researchinto every aspect of breastcancer and distributes fundson the basis of excellence.✱www.nbcf.org.au

Breast CancerAustraliaNon-profit trust set up primarilyto raise funds to supportresearch programs, to raiseawareness, upgrade equipmentand provide accommodationfor patients and their familiesduring treatment.✱www.breastcanceraustralia.org

Worried? For a freemammogram visitBreastScreen Australia isthe national mammographicscreening program. Itprovides free screeningmammograms for womenaged 50-69.✱ Ph: 13 20 50✱www.breastscreen.info.au

Breast CancerInstitute of AustraliaFundraises nationally to supportthe research of the AustralianNew Zealand Breast CancerTrials Group.

✱www.bcia.org.au

Breast CancerNetwork AustraliaA network of consumer groupsand individuals whose roleis to empower, inform,represent and link Australianswho are personally affectedby breast cancer.✱www.bcna.org.au

Breast cancer in Australia

This morning I was well enoughto take my first short walk after thefinal chemotherapy treatment. Theguy in the fruit shop smiled and askedhow I was. I beamed: “Guess what,I’m alive.’’ He thought I was crazy butwho cares.

✱ Jill Baker is hoping to be a five-year survivor of breast cancer in

May 2015, surgeon and oncologistwilling. Her husband died inJanuary this year. She has justreturned to work full-time asdeputy editor of the Herald Sun.She hopes to have long blackeyelashes by Christmas and if her cancer returns she will tryhard to put those white hospitalunderpants on. Well, maybe.

✱Monday is Pink Ribbon Daywhen Australians are encouragedto host a breakfast to raise moneyfor the National Breast CancerFoundation.✱www.pinkribbonbreakfast.org.au

✱One in nine Australianwomen will develop breastcancer and tragically onein 38 will die from it beforethe age of 85.

✱Breast cancer is the mostcommon form of canceraffecting Australianwomen aged 34-75 years.

✱ From 1982 to 2006, thenumber of breast cancercases in Australia morethan doubled.

✱Government projectionspredict the number of women diagnosed willincrease to 15,440 caseseach year by 2015.

✱This equates to 42women being diagnosedwith breast cancer everyday in 2015.

✱Risk factors include:Getting older (this is themain risk factor) andhaving a family historyof breast cancer.

Picking up thepiecesNurse JanCheyne (left)is on the endof patients’beds aftersurgery eachnight; whileoncology nurse

Marisa Stevensis always allsmiles. Theyknow none of their patientsreally want tobe here.


Tell us your story✱You’ve read about Jill’s fight,now tell us your story atwww.heraldsun.com.au

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