The surgeon said he was sorry as he handed me the pathology report. Two words concerned me: metastasis and aggressive.
I’m an optimist. “God will get us through this,” I boldly told my husband, who looked frightened.
A month and a half later, awaking from a mastectomy in the middle of the night, I crashed. I was scared. I wasn’t afraid to die; I feared chemo and radiation. At my lowest point, God wrapped his arms around me with assurance that He would be with me all the way. Then He comforted me with a Dottie Rambo song, Sheltered in the Arms of God. After this experience, I didn't need to attend support meetings as suggested by the Cancer Society.
During the year-long treatment, I was admitted to the hospital twice for “high-dose” chemo – four weeks the first time and five weeks the second. Instead of one treatment every three weeks, I received chemo each of the first five days.
I understand that chemotherapy affects people differently. The nausea medicine worked for me and I didn’t get nauseous – just weak. Seven years into remission my oncologist told me I was in a fifteen percent survival rate for my type of cancer. Today I'm fourteen years in remission. Thank
