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Jul 26, 2017 01:15AM
Jul 26, 2017 01:16AM
Cherry, my lumpectomy scar looked great, even though it was about 4" long. Unfortunately, my BMX scars looked pretty terrible. I lost a lot of tissue to necrosis and the recovery was long and arduous. It's been about a year & a half and the scars look a lot better now. Not pretty, but at least they aren't angry red now.
I wanted to speak to your comments about my positive attitude and tell you how I found my strength: This is not my first rodeo.
My youngest son was born with severe global developmental delays. He was medically fragile, had feeding problems, and in every way remained like a newborn baby for over a year. DS was found to be blind and deaf. Needless to say, we were frantic to find answers and he needed full support all the time--we couldn't leave him with anyone. He had over 200 blood tests, to no avail. Our geneticist finally told us that whatever it was, it probably was bad; he told me to take my son home and love him as long as we could. He wasn't expected to live long.
I was utterly devastated. I mean, so much that I was almost paralyzed. I couldn't take care of my children. All I could do was lie in the bed with my son and cry. Other people stepped in a brought food, took my kids to activities, and did my laundry. And I just cried and cried.
And then, six weeks later the geneticist called. It seems that one test came back that made the diagnosis--an extremely rare chromosome disorder that normally causes babies to die in utero or shortly after birth. DS was already 2. The doctor said that although DS would never walk or talk or in any way take care of himself, his health seemed unaffected--in other words, his main requirements would be educational and supportive care. I was stunned. Here I had just WASTED 6 weeks of my children's lives laying in deep depression, mourning events that would never happen. In other words, I borrowed trouble.
Even though the diagnosis was pretty bleak, it snapped me out of my depression and set my feet on firm ground. My motto became, "Whatever it takes!" I would do absolutely anything to help my boy overcome. I pushed him hard in PT, OT, and Speech therapy. I dragged him around on my back, saying, "You gotta walk, son. I can't carry you forever." I found ways to trick him into eating from a spoon. I was like a woman on fire! My other kids thought I was horrible, because I sometimes made him cry. And you know what? Most of those dire predictions didn't come true. DS learned to feed himself, learned to walk, swim, and ride a horse. DS turned out to have some vision and only mild hearing deficits. He went on to win blue ribbons in Special Olympics and horse competitions. He even learned to camp!
Today, my son is 22, a grown man 6'3". Of the approximately 150 children worldwide who have his particular disability, he is the only adult who is still walking. He has a happy, fulfilled life, living in a group home and attending a special needs program for adults. What if I had given in to that depression? what if I had not pushed him so hard? How different would his life have been? And what would my other children have learned from it--that when the going gets tough, the tough wimp out? NO! Not on my watch!
Whatever it takes, a motto that has served me well for over 20 years.
Oncotype 23. Positive for PALB2 & Chek2 gene mutations. My breasts are trying to kill me!
7/20/2015, DCIS/IDC, Right, 1cm, Stage IA, Grade 3, 0/2 nodes, ER+/PR-, HER2-
9/2/2015 Lumpectomy: Right
10/19/2015 Cytoxan (cyclophosphamide), Taxotere (docetaxel)
2/3/2016 Prophylactic mastectomy: Left, Right