My mom’s greatest fear when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer was that she was going to lose her breast.
This is the case for most women after the initial diagnosis, because no one can fathom losing something that is not only very much a part of you, but also embodies who you’re supposed to be – Woman.

Months ago through chemo, radiation, an infection, low white cell count, being constantly short of breath and finding that Herceptin was damaging her heart, my mom surprised us all by choosing to have a mastectomy.

This mustn’t have been an easy decision for her, although I hoped everyday that she would consider this. My mom is a very traditional woman who regarded “chopping off” her breasts just as vicious as the disease itself.

Tomorrow my mom will undergo a mastectomy. We’ve come a long way since that first diagnosis in 2003.
Cancer is a great teacher, it’s changed us. Losing a breast is no longer my mom’s greatest fear; her (and our) greatest fear is that the cancer will recur or metastasize. Cancer teaches you to be a fighter, to go at it with all that you have. And “chopping off” her breast is just one small step my mom has to take to beat this.

One of my mom’s oncologists, a Zimbabwean-born older gentleman with kind eyes (and a last name only my mom can pronounce correctly) joked that after five kids my mom is wise to want to trade them in for newer ones. He gave her some sound and practical advice too; he’s the first person she really listened to on the subject. She called him her brother and pronounced him… “My favourite doctor of all!” she paused for a second, settled down and added “…after Dr. Lim, of course”, Pearlsa and I said in unison “Of course”.

Of course, Dr. Lim is her primary oncologist, an extremely nice and polite young man who apologises when he has to prescribe those nasty cancer fighting drugs. He explained that she had options and that she’s not alone.

My mom warmed up to the idea even more when reconstructive surgery was brought up, we had several consultations with a plastic surgeon, the possibilities seemed limitless. She could even have a mastectomy and reconstruction during the same operation. In the end, she said she wanted to wait, and concentrate on healing.

An old friend upon hearing the news sent me an email “I’m sorry to hear of this turn for your mum” it said. This annoyed me a little (again, forgive me?) because I don’t remember getting an “I’m sorry your mum has to be pumped with deadly toxins” email.

There really are no right or wrong words for instances like this, it’s just a highly emotionally charged moment – but that’s why we have psycho-oncologists (cancer shrinks).

Tomorrow my mom will go to sleep and wake up with her breast gone – I can’t imagine what that is like.

I wonder what she’ll think of when she goes to bed tonight, her last moments with her cancer ridden breast. Does she hate her breast? Is she glad she’s getting rid of them? I asked her this morning, but she just laughed it off, held up her breast and said “these things have caused me so much trouble, maybe it’s time for them to go”

My friend J says only strong people get cancer, or maybe cancer makes people strong. I don’t know.

A couple of nights ago I was standing in the shower, one hand poised above my head ready to do my monthly breast self exam when a tiny thought came to me; “do I really want to know?” I’ve been doing these exams for a little over two years now; my doctor said to do them… even when reports came out that they weren’t necessarily effective.

During my first Race for Cure – this was back when I lived in Maryland, someone, probably the race director mentioned that everyone would know at least one person with breast cancer in their lifetime. I didn’t know anyone with breast cancer then so I found the thought troubling.

At the agency, the nurses at the chemo unit emphatically tell patients who’re through with their treatments that they hope to never see them again. It is endearing to see this as it’s ironic.

My mom is through with her chemo treatments but she still goes to the chemo unit for her Herceptin infusions, she’ll be on those for the next couple of months.

Cancer is like that thing you can never get away from; it takes years to treat, years of monitoring thereafter and a constant reminder of its pervasiveness. A day rarely goes by without report of a new development on cancer, a tv character or some notable person getting cancer. Being that close to the disease has desensitized me a little; I used to think all sorts of unimaginable things when I’d hear someone had been stricken with cancer. These days my brain automatically shifts to treatment mode and the horrors kept at bay.

Yet, cancer remains ominous because there are many varieties, no one is immune and in most cases no one can tell why or how you got cancer.

My mom is getting towards the end of her treatment; she finished five and the half weeks of radiation this Thursday. Radiation wasn’t as hard on her as chemo was and we’re grateful for that. She’ll be doing a host of tests in the next couple of weeks and then she’ll finally undergo surgery for mastectomy in June. We (and her team of doctors) are hopeful that this is the best treatment for her, she’s the most hopeful of us all – I wish I had her faith and conviction. Sometimes I get a little frustrated because it borders on denial but it’s been an adventurous ride and I’m pleased to say that cancer hasn’t become us, partly because of my mother’s attitude.

“I am not the tumour in my breast” she says emphatically “I can’t let cancer take over my whole life and I hate those pink ribbons; take them off!”

This year was my first Christmas with my mom in long time.

I was eleven years old the last time my mom and I spent Christmas together. We sat solemnly that Christmas morning, as the adults looked on with empty bored gazes, probably counting down the days until the obligation to endure each other’s presence would end.

This year was also the first time I spent Christmas in a hospital.

My mom’s second cycle of chemotherapy treatments started on Dec 15^th, this means she was going on a new set of chemotherapy drugs, Docetaxel and Herceptin (technically Herceptin isn’t a chemo drug; it inhibits the growth of HER2 protein).

Thanks to the steroids she’s pumped with (to combat the side effects of the chemo), her first three days after the treatment as always were energy filled blissful moments. She started moving slower on the fifth day, took more naps and wasn’t as active

The sixth day after treatment was Sat. Dec 20^th. She looked weak and worn out, her temperature was around 36C/98.6F, not high enough to panic so we cancelled the dinner party we had that night and decided she probably needed a bit more rest.

She slept throughout the day on the 21^st and the 22^nd, getting up only to eat, take her meds or go to the bathroom. The atmosphere was a little sombre but we tried to be cheerful, I went out, tried to finish my shopping and got into the Christmas spirit as much as I could.

She got out of bed for a bit on the 23^rd, tried to get into the festivities and declared “this is the REAL chemo” her theory being that the more awful the drug the more effective it’ll be.

She stayed in bed again on the 24^th, this time she could only sit up to take her meds, she’d also developed a sore throat and her temperature was 37.1C/98.78F. According to our chemo emergency drill, we are supposed to call the agency when her temperature reaches 38C/100F – this is when it’s no longer just a side effect of the chemo, a temperature that high suggests a possible infection. We canceled dinner plans with friends and decided to keep a close eye on the temperature. A bad snow storm had just blown in and the roads were horrible, I trekked through the snowy mess to do some last minute shopping and prayed for a miracle.

I woke up on Christmas morning with Pearlsa standing over me holding up my mom’s thermometer, her temperature had crept up to 37.6C/99.68F, we called the agency anyway; they said to continue monitoring her and that a doctor would call us in a few minutes.

The doctor called and said to bring her in immediately if we could, we decided we had no choice. My mom insisted on taking a shower first.

Considering the road conditions we knew there was no way we could make it in a small car, bigger stronger cars had gotten stuck spinning in their wheels trying to get out of the area. We considered calling an ambulance but an ambulance would only take us to the closest hospital which is St. Paul’s, that wouldn’t help our cause – our chemo emergency drill emphatically suggests that you try to get to the agency in case of an emergency, VGH is a close second and if you have to, then St. Paul’s was ok.

We tried calling a taxi but gave up after a couple of unsuccessful attempts – the lines were busy.

We decided we had to brave the road; we piled ourselves into the small car and set off.

I think we got there sound and safe by sheer determination, we got stuck a bunch of times, slid off ice, and at one point had to plough through a tiny snowbank because that was the only way forward.

They were expecting us at the agency; my mom was immediately admitted, hooked up to monitors and blood cultures ordered. Her temperature was at 38.2C/100.76F.

Everyone was so nice, kind, informative and almost apologetic, as if it were their fault we had to come in on Christmas day, in the bad weather! I felt bad for the oncologist who had to bring her three year old in, but the cute little girl didn’t seem to mind, she came to sit with us for a while in our room and we bonded over mini honey mandarin oranges.

The doctor was also incredible; she spoke to my mom like a person, not a disease. The results for the blood work came back as she’d suspected, my mom had developed a slight infection, which was typical with patients on Docetaxel as it literally wipes away the immune system. Most people on Docetaxel are also on Neupogen, a drug which stimulate the bone marrow to produce white blood cells.

We decided with the doctor to go with a prescription of antibiotics for now and then discuss Neupogen with her primary oncologist.

Mom had lunch at the hospital, took her first dose of the antibiotics, was monitored till her temperature came down and then was discharged.

We took to the treacherous roads back and managed to get home in one piece.

It was still Christmas… we merrily opened our presents but in our minds we knew we’d already gotten the best present of all.

One of the many wonderful side effects of (the chemotherapy drug) Doxorubicin is mouth sores.

My mom has been lucky so far, we’re in Cycle 1 Day 3 and so far side effects have been minimal.

Of course her hair is totally gone, everyone says her bald head and round rimmed glasses makes her look a like Ghandi!

She’s generally weak and has no appetite.

She started developing mouth sores in Cycle 1 Day 2, it got so bad it hurt to brush at some point.

Her oncologist prescribed Magic Mouthwash and that helped a little.

A few days ago my mom informed us that she no longer had mouth sores!

“A miracle,” I proclaimed!

“No, Marmite” she said It turns out Marmite cures mouth sores! Who knew?

Marmite is a dark brown-coloured savoury spread made from the yeast that is a by-product of the brewing industry. It has a very strong, slightly salty flavour. It is definitely a love-it-or-hate-it type of food.

I remember when we were kids; my sister was diagnosed with anaemia and her Dr. recommended marmite as part of her diet, it turned out she had Thalassemia but that’s how our household got into eating marmite. My mom was convinced it had magical powers – why else would it taste so awful?.

I brought back a huge Squeeze Me tub back from London last year, it’s a little runnier than the original.

Thankfully Marmite is readily available here in (the spreads section) most supermarkets because that’s the only thing that seems to help with her mouth sores.

I did some googling and it turns out marmite does help with mouth ulcers.

I’m sitting there twirling my thumbs, a little uncomfortable – I look around the office. I paste on a smile as she takes another sip from her moomin mug. The silence has stretched on for a bit now – it’s almost painful, I picture walking out, being free.

She looks straight at me and says in a rather loud voice “it’s also important to understand that this isn’t your fault”

“What isn’t my fault?” I ask confused

“It’s important that you don’t blame yourself for this, it’s not your fault that your mother has breast cancer” She elaborates.

I sit up scrunching my face to register my confusion and go, “What!?

Does she really think that I believe that I somehow caused my mother’s ailment?

What am I, 8? I’m not that self-centred!

I do realize that sometimes people get sick and it has nothing to do with me, it’s not always about me.

She must really think I’m an idiot

I can’t believe I’m giving this woman $150/session to screw with my head.