The emotion remains obtuse. And this word, obtuse, I'm not sure if it is the correct one or not because I remain slightly addle-brained from the anti-cancer drug saturation.
Tonight's blog, however, is not about then. It is about TODAY. Yesterday I flew into Santa Fe so that, today, I could take my final 6th-month mammogram, and meet with both oncologists. Mammogram clean; blood samples clean. Oncologist One, gave me a hug and said, "Take the last of your Arimidex, and get on with your life. If you want, you can see me next year, but your primary physician is really all you need now." Oncologist Two said, "I can't promise that you won't be 'slightly addle-brained,' I mean, I'm your age and I struggle with names—but unless you notice something really odd, I don't need to see you again."
That's it. I'm done. My daughter and son-in-law brought home champagne and flowers. We hugged and hugged. I cried.
How much change has occurred within me since 2004? Enough change to write a book.
Would I do this again? I pray I don't have this decision to make again.
It's estimated that 211,000 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year. So, I am not that unique. Sadly, 40,000 will die from the disease. About 1,700 men are diagnosed each year with breast cancer.
The majority of diagnosed women will survive. They will survive, in part, because of the tireless work by the volunteers who walk, run, bicycle, and donate funds to organizations devoted to finding the cure.
It's my turn now. Maybe I'll see you on the next walk to find the cure.
Meet Mawser--he's the furball that let us know that something was wrong with me long before the humans discovered cancer inside my breast.