Cancer Memoir: ‘You’re going to be Iron Woman!’
This is Chapter 2 in the Cancer Memoir. Catch up with previous chapters here.
My doctor handed me a single piece of paper with the game plan to save my life. Chemotherapy (chemo) was phase one in my plan. My first cancer mountain to climb. But before I was to start this phase, Jeremy and I would have to sit our two children, our daughter, 12, and our son, 11, down to let them know that I had cancer.
Being a parent is one of the most rewarding and challenging things I have ever done. I am beyond blessed with two military kids who amaze me daily. They are Coastie kids, and while their dad does not deploy for months at a time, he does get “underway.” Underway is a term the Coast Guard uses when a cutter goes out for a period of time. Depending on the cutter’s class and mission, some go out for months, weekly, daily or every other week. Since joining the Coast Guard, Jeremy has been attached to cutters throughout his career, which you might have guessed has been our children’s entire lives. So when I say I have two amazing military kids, I mean it. They are proud of their dad’s work and understand his busy schedule. They also realize Mom has to be a solo parent. Jeremy is currently attached to a River Tender Cutter. They get underway for about a week, a few times a month. Mother Nature arranges a lot of his schedule.
Sitting our children down to tell them I had cancer was one of the hardest things I think I have ever done. In their world, I am their rock, the constant person, the meal maker, the one who shuttles them to and from school and all extra activities. I am the one they come to when they need a hug because they miss their dad, the parent in their lives they never have to worry about. I was nervous and scared because I knew saying these words, “Hey guys, I have breast cancer,” would be some of the heaviest words they would ever hear in their life.
Our daughter was really quiet. She nodded yes, understanding what we had just told them, but I could see the tears building up around her eyes. Our son immediately asked, “Are you going to lose your hair?” I replied, “Yes, Mommy is going to begin her fight with chemo, and chemo does make your hair fall out. But it will grow back!”
Jeremy and I kept the conversation light, giving them enough information to let them know I would be starting chemo soon. We did not talk about my cancer stage. When your children are old enough to Google things, words and phrases can carry more weight to them than you will ever know. We also did not use the phrase “Mom is sick” because this mom right here is one helluva strong fighter. They would come to understand that I would need moments of rest and more help with things because my body would be working overtime. Chemo would be helping me in my fight.
So, my first cancer mountain to climb would be chemo. I started this climb by going into surgery and getting a port placed on the left side of my chest, because moving forward, nothing would be done on my right side, the cancer side. I will never forget when I came home from the hospital after my surgery. Trying to explain my port surgery procedure to my son started with me telling him I was going to have a device put inside of me to help me fight cancer. He looked at me and said, “Oh like Iron Man?” I laughed and said, “Kind of like Iron Man but not such a big device. He said, “Well Mom, so you’re going to be Iron Woman!”
I then met with my oncologist nurse for an over-hour-long chemo class. Here is where I learned that every other week I would be getting four rounds of AC, which is doxorubicin hydrochloride (Adriamycin), aka “red devil,” and cyclophosphamide. That would be followed by 12 rounds of weekly Paclitaxel (Taxol). Three different chemo drugs having two things in common: hair loss and nausea. I would have a total number of 16 chemo treatments. I never knew the number 16 could feel like an impossible number. But that day, that moment, being told you needed to do 16 rounds of chemo felt like such an enormous, insurmountable number.
On January 4, 2024, I started my first cycle of chemo. Oh, I was so nervous. I was nervous about how I would react to these new drugs, what the following days would look like ahead of me, whether I would be able to keep doing all my mom things, when would my hair fall out, and what to wear. I know, what to wear sounds silly! But I needed to wear something comfortable with easy access to my port. I was so nervous that I did not eat breakfast that morning and completely forgot to put on my lidocaine cream—two things I don’t recommend going into a chemo treatment. This first chemo treatment would set the pace for the coming months I had ahead of me, beginning with my AC rounds.
I walked into the cancer center with my metal Stanley cup in one hand (also not something to take to chemo with you, tell you more on why later) and my chemo bag draped over my left shoulder. I checked in with the front desk, sat down, and nervously held Jeremy’s hand while waiting to be called to the registration desk. Registration called my name. I sat down and was asked three questions: Name and date of birth, do I have a living will, and was I allergic to latex? Once all registered, I was given a hospital bracelet and my sticker sheet and walked the five steps over to get my blood drawn. Red, purple, and pink were three little tubes that would tell my care team if I could have chemo that day. Little did I know that this check-in process would be my new normal. With a bandage on my left arm, I went and sat down next to Jeremy. We waited for my bloodwork to come back. This would be the green light for us to walk through the double doors and back to the chemo chair.
Okay friend, I am pausing here to express to you that everyone’s cancer journey is different. I have chosen to be an open book, sharing my journey and my story. I’m trying to take something tragic in my life and turn it into good. My story could help someone heal, help a caregiver or family member understand more, or make more people comfortable talking about cancer or going to their doctor. Maybe my story helps a fellow military spouse walking the same battle feel not so alone. But not every cancer fighter/thriver feels this same way. Their choice to share or not share is a personal one. So please, if you know someone walking on a cancer or health journey, send them a text, a card, or a call. Just because they are not sharing does not mean they still don’t need your love and support! Shine on my friends, until next week.
Come back every Friday to walk this journey with Stacy Bilodeau as part of the MilSpouse Memoirs, stories brought to you in chapters, one week at a time.
