I’m 41 years old and have already gone through a double mastectomy, 8 rounds of chemo, 1 reconstructive surgery, 7 weeks of radiation and an oophorectomy (the removal of my ovaries). All because of my breast cancer diagnosis and having the BRCA 2 mutation.
That’s enough for a lifetime, if you ask me.
I went to see my oncologist in May for my 6-month check up. She wanted me to do a bone density test, mainly to get a baseline, she said. Having my ovaries removed and taking tamoxifen, my body is not producing or getting any estrogen, which helps keep bones strong. So I figured I would be at risk for osteoporosis, but not for a while.
Last week I finally did my bone density test, which, by the way, was the easiest test I’ve ever done. No IV, no drugs, no fasting. You lay down, they scan your spine, then they scan one hip. Then you’re done. In and out in 15 minutes. Best. Test. Ever.
Two days later, I got the call from my oncologist. My spine already shows signs of osteoporosis. DAMN IT!
So now she wants me to be given a drug called Zometa. Zometa is a bone strengthening drug, which also has shown to prevent recurrences of breast cancer. Both good things.
Here’s the good news – I will only have to be given Zometa once every 6 months (twice a year). It only takes 15 minutes to administer the drug.
Now the unsettling part – Zometa is given through an IV. That kind of sucks. But the worst part – I have to go to the chemo area of the hospital to get the infusion.
I never wanted (or want) to see that stupid chemo area again. When I said goodbye to those lovely nurses who helped me through chemo two years ago, I said goodbye. Not see you later. Goodbye. Have a good life. I’ll never see you again.
But here I am, being told to get an osteoporosis drug administered in the chemo area of the hospital.
Now, I know I should be grateful that I’m only going there for osteoporosis, and not because I have a recurrence of breast cancer or some other cancer (fingers crossed that’s always the case). And I should be grateful that my oncologist is aggressive and assertive on my behalf with any health issue. But that somehow isn’t making the tears stop flowing when I think about walking into that chemo area. Having to see all those people, who I used to be one of, get chemo – that’s going to be hard. Talk about PTSD.
I guess the other upsetting part is that this is just one more thing I have to do now because of stupid f*$%ing breast cancer.
I see at least 1 doctor every 3 months, I get blood work done every 6 months, I go for scans every year, and now I have to go get this drug pumped into me every 6 moths. It’s just one more thing that I have to do in a hospital with doctors. And that just sucks.
It reinforces the fact that you’re never really done with cancer. There’s always something.