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Monday, February 23, 2015
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
How Many Young Adults Have Cancer?
It's been quite a while since I updated this blog. I've been pretty busy trying to keep up my normal routine while dealing with the side effects of treatment. A lot has happened since I last wrote. For an update on my treatment, which involves an immunotherapy trial, see the January 2015 update on the About My Diagnosis page.
According to Stupid Cancer, 72,000 young adults are diagnosed with cancer each year. Now I am not very good at math, nor do I claim to know anywhere near 72,000 people, but within my circle of friends, it seems like the real number of young adults with cancer is even higher. Including myself, there are four of us who have known each other since we were teenagers, who have or had cancer.
Three years ago, one of my friends was diagnosed with stage III HER2+ Inflammatory Breast Cancer. A vibrant, busy, mother of two, and successful professional, it was a shock to all of us. Our community of friends rallied behind her and her family. She underwent surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy. After two years of maintaining a status of No Evidence of Disease, thanks in large part to infusions of Herceptin every three weeks, her cancer metastasized to her brain. She underwent whole brain radiation with good results and continues to treat her now stage IV cancer with Herceptin infusions.
A little less than two years ago, one of my very close friends, at age 38 was diagnosed with stage I uterine cancer. We were shocked that two people in our group of friends could have cancer. Who gets cancer in their thirties? She had a total hysterectomy, including thirty lymph nodes, and now regards herself as having 'had" cancer, even though she's still a little short of that magic two years without cancer mark. Of course, having a total hysterectomy in your thirties creates all sorts of other problems that young adults should not have to deal with, putting your body into complete menopause overnight. Her cancer also tested positive for Lynch Syndrome, although her blood work does not and she does not have the family history of cancer that comes with Lynch. The geneticists don't quite know what to make of her, but she now has to undergo the lengthy panel of annual tests that go with Lynch. She also mystifies doctors, being young and not overweight, and very active, it makes no sense that she developed uterine cancer. About two months after her hysterectomy, we had a party with a uterus shaped pinata that I made, so we could beat the crap out of cancer.
Less than six months after that, I was diagnosed with stage IV stomach cancer at the age of 35. You can read all about my diagnosis and treatment elsewhere on this site. I've posted before about the "how's and why's" of my cancer. It is all due to genetics in my case, a genetic mutation that gave me an 80% chance of developing stomach cancer, most likely at a young age. To say that our community of friends was rocked by a third cancer diagnosis of a friend in her thirties is an understatement.
Then, this week, another friend, from this same group of people, had his left testicle removed due to what is most likely (90%) testicular cancer. Now he is 40, so in the cancer world he is technically not a young adult, but this is still shocking and it brought me to really question what percentage of young adults has cancer. How many of us are there?
As I stated above, I'm not very good at math and I loathe statistics. And I feel like this is the point where I would normally begin to sum up my thoughts with some sort of conclusion that would make sense of all this. But I have no conclusion. And this doesn't make sense.
Stupid Cancer.
According to Stupid Cancer, 72,000 young adults are diagnosed with cancer each year. Now I am not very good at math, nor do I claim to know anywhere near 72,000 people, but within my circle of friends, it seems like the real number of young adults with cancer is even higher. Including myself, there are four of us who have known each other since we were teenagers, who have or had cancer.
Three years ago, one of my friends was diagnosed with stage III HER2+ Inflammatory Breast Cancer. A vibrant, busy, mother of two, and successful professional, it was a shock to all of us. Our community of friends rallied behind her and her family. She underwent surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy. After two years of maintaining a status of No Evidence of Disease, thanks in large part to infusions of Herceptin every three weeks, her cancer metastasized to her brain. She underwent whole brain radiation with good results and continues to treat her now stage IV cancer with Herceptin infusions.
A little less than two years ago, one of my very close friends, at age 38 was diagnosed with stage I uterine cancer. We were shocked that two people in our group of friends could have cancer. Who gets cancer in their thirties? She had a total hysterectomy, including thirty lymph nodes, and now regards herself as having 'had" cancer, even though she's still a little short of that magic two years without cancer mark. Of course, having a total hysterectomy in your thirties creates all sorts of other problems that young adults should not have to deal with, putting your body into complete menopause overnight. Her cancer also tested positive for Lynch Syndrome, although her blood work does not and she does not have the family history of cancer that comes with Lynch. The geneticists don't quite know what to make of her, but she now has to undergo the lengthy panel of annual tests that go with Lynch. She also mystifies doctors, being young and not overweight, and very active, it makes no sense that she developed uterine cancer. About two months after her hysterectomy, we had a party with a uterus shaped pinata that I made, so we could beat the crap out of cancer.
Less than six months after that, I was diagnosed with stage IV stomach cancer at the age of 35. You can read all about my diagnosis and treatment elsewhere on this site. I've posted before about the "how's and why's" of my cancer. It is all due to genetics in my case, a genetic mutation that gave me an 80% chance of developing stomach cancer, most likely at a young age. To say that our community of friends was rocked by a third cancer diagnosis of a friend in her thirties is an understatement.
Then, this week, another friend, from this same group of people, had his left testicle removed due to what is most likely (90%) testicular cancer. Now he is 40, so in the cancer world he is technically not a young adult, but this is still shocking and it brought me to really question what percentage of young adults has cancer. How many of us are there?
As I stated above, I'm not very good at math and I loathe statistics. And I feel like this is the point where I would normally begin to sum up my thoughts with some sort of conclusion that would make sense of all this. But I have no conclusion. And this doesn't make sense.
Stupid Cancer.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Long time, no blog.
It's been almost a month since my last post. I'm sure you've all been on the edge of you seats. The reason for the delay? I've been on a "treatment holiday" from chemo! Woo Hoo! That means I've been out there living it up so much that I haven't had time to write.
I start treatment again in a little over a week. I'll also be having an MRI that day to investigate some spots on my liver. These spots have been there since my diagnosis and the consensus has been that they weren't cancer. But after my most recent ct scan, the two radiology reports disagreed with each other, so hence the MRI to settle their dispute. Never a dull moment with me. I like to keep those world class doctors on their toes!
During my treatment holiday, I've been back at work, full time, every day. It's been great. I'm feeling much less fatigued and the neuropathy and mouth sores have decreased. We also purchased a new car! I'll blog about that decision soon as a follow up on my "To buy or not to buy" post.
In the mean time, as you nail-bitingly await my next post, you can listen to me on The Stupid Cancer Show or read my guest blog on Hope for Young Adults With Cancer.
Finally, I wanted to share my latest awesome idea. If my treatment schedule stays the same, I'll have infusion on Halloween, meaning I'll have to wear my Wonder Woman costume to the hospital instead of to work. So I've decided to go reverse trick or treating in the infusion suite. Instead of going door to door and getting treats because of my awesome costume, I'll go infusion chair to infusion chair and give out treats (probably rubber bracelets if I can find them cheap enough). I know, you wish you'd thought of this first, but instead of moping about that, steal my idea and go reverse trick or treating yourself. We'll start a revolution, spreading awareness and joy as we go!
I start treatment again in a little over a week. I'll also be having an MRI that day to investigate some spots on my liver. These spots have been there since my diagnosis and the consensus has been that they weren't cancer. But after my most recent ct scan, the two radiology reports disagreed with each other, so hence the MRI to settle their dispute. Never a dull moment with me. I like to keep those world class doctors on their toes!
During my treatment holiday, I've been back at work, full time, every day. It's been great. I'm feeling much less fatigued and the neuropathy and mouth sores have decreased. We also purchased a new car! I'll blog about that decision soon as a follow up on my "To buy or not to buy" post.
In the mean time, as you nail-bitingly await my next post, you can listen to me on The Stupid Cancer Show or read my guest blog on Hope for Young Adults With Cancer.
Finally, I wanted to share my latest awesome idea. If my treatment schedule stays the same, I'll have infusion on Halloween, meaning I'll have to wear my Wonder Woman costume to the hospital instead of to work. So I've decided to go reverse trick or treating in the infusion suite. Instead of going door to door and getting treats because of my awesome costume, I'll go infusion chair to infusion chair and give out treats (probably rubber bracelets if I can find them cheap enough). I know, you wish you'd thought of this first, but instead of moping about that, steal my idea and go reverse trick or treating yourself. We'll start a revolution, spreading awareness and joy as we go!
Thursday, August 14, 2014
It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To
Tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of my diagnosis with Stage IV gastric cancer.
I've spent the last two weeks trying to figure out how to observe this day. My husband has been encouraging me to do something fun and exciting. A friend of mine who had uterine cancer marked her one year anniversary by climbing a very steep hill in her home town, just because she could. Some of you reading this must have marked similar anniversaries. What did you do?
It's strange to think of celebrating one year of having cancer. On the other hand, my treatment has gone better than expected and the fact that I am still here is certainly reason to celebrate! But still, nothing came to mind when asked how I wanted to observe this day. Nothing seemed appropriate. I thought and I thought, talked with some friends, but still, nothing. I needed a way to both celebrate and grieve at the same time.
While this year has been promising in terms of my treatment, it's also been a year of intense changes and loss. I've lost my old "normal" life. The satisfying day to day routine of my old life is gone. The professional goals I'd set for my self now seem unattainable. Right after my diagnosis things were unpredictable and surprising. Then came a period of "my new normal", which may have been predictable, but was not the satisfying routine of only a few months before. Now I often describe things as "par for the course". Fatigue, neuropathy, and everything thing else are just the same old same old.
Next week, I have a ct scan. If it shows that things remain stable, I'll take a little break from chemo, probably four to six weeks. This will provide a break from the same old same old. Hopefully my side effects will diminish and it will provide me the opportunity to attempt my old routines without the interruption of treatment and the recovery time that requires.
So tomorrow, my husband and I will have breakfast with one friend, lunch with another, and dinner with still others. It'll be my party, but I'll cry if I want to.
Update: I didn't cry. Instead, I hugged a friend in a penguin suit at Dunkin' Donuts.
I've spent the last two weeks trying to figure out how to observe this day. My husband has been encouraging me to do something fun and exciting. A friend of mine who had uterine cancer marked her one year anniversary by climbing a very steep hill in her home town, just because she could. Some of you reading this must have marked similar anniversaries. What did you do?
It's strange to think of celebrating one year of having cancer. On the other hand, my treatment has gone better than expected and the fact that I am still here is certainly reason to celebrate! But still, nothing came to mind when asked how I wanted to observe this day. Nothing seemed appropriate. I thought and I thought, talked with some friends, but still, nothing. I needed a way to both celebrate and grieve at the same time.
While this year has been promising in terms of my treatment, it's also been a year of intense changes and loss. I've lost my old "normal" life. The satisfying day to day routine of my old life is gone. The professional goals I'd set for my self now seem unattainable. Right after my diagnosis things were unpredictable and surprising. Then came a period of "my new normal", which may have been predictable, but was not the satisfying routine of only a few months before. Now I often describe things as "par for the course". Fatigue, neuropathy, and everything thing else are just the same old same old.
Next week, I have a ct scan. If it shows that things remain stable, I'll take a little break from chemo, probably four to six weeks. This will provide a break from the same old same old. Hopefully my side effects will diminish and it will provide me the opportunity to attempt my old routines without the interruption of treatment and the recovery time that requires.
So tomorrow, my husband and I will have breakfast with one friend, lunch with another, and dinner with still others. It'll be my party, but I'll cry if I want to.
Update: I didn't cry. Instead, I hugged a friend in a penguin suit at Dunkin' Donuts.
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