My Own Kokoda

As Brisbane moves into its bright and chilly winter season, I can't believe that it's been eight and a half months since diagnosis. Still, I wouldn't exactly say the weeks have been galloping away. It's been more like a fair trot if not a slow canter I guess as I've set out to regain some vestige of a 'normal' life.

With each passing day, the memory of my treatments recedes that little further and I regularly think how true it is that nothing is forever. One day Justin Beiber will be Keith Richards; one day Greece will be a thriving economy again (okay, that's a long bow: they'll need a work ethic first); and worst of all, one day Miranda Kerr will be a washed-out 'former model'

But recently, I'm aware that that 'one day' has already come where many of my friends are concerned. They have ticked that box saying "Bronwyn is well", and it's understandable that they may have already lost interest in what happens from now.

In fact, when I reported my first 'all clear' a few weeks ago, my friends were rejoicing with praise for my 'beating cancer'. Bless their cotton socks.

The sad reality though is that while I have the 'three month all clear', from now it'll be a case of getting past each mark - six months; 12 months; one year and then, the Holy Grail (apparently) the FIVE YEAR all clear.

In other words, it seems I can't really let my guard down for at least another 1661 days (but who's counting?) and until that time, I can't really crack the bottle of Veuve that Nim gave me.

It scares me a little, I have to admit: the fact that for the first time in my life, I am effectively living in the future. Whatever I'm doing now, out of the corner of my eye, I'm keeping tabs of what may lie ahead.

My titlessness notwithstanding, my creaking joints are there to continually remind me that all is not yet well.

Last week, for instance, Al, me and Ben went to see 'Men in Black III' at the local cinema. I haven't been to a movie in ages but imagine how I felt when, after the movie finished, Al had to help me down the stairs because I'd seized up so much. "Come on, granny," he said. Which is funny I suppose, but not very much when you're still only 48. It was mildly depressing.

I'm hardly bounding around like Snoopy in love, put it like that.

But "Mind over Matter" is my mantra and I'm not letting this sorry state stop me from doing the things I love or living life the way I like to live it.

Let me tell you about what happened last Sunday, two days ago.

"It was a dark and stormy morning..." No, really, it was! It was in fact pissing down with rain in Redland Bay where I live. It had been raining all night and all through the previous two days, enough so that soccer was cancelled, as were all the school sports.

It was wet and cold and I still couldn't breathe after carting round a bad cold for at least the past two weeks.

All in all, I was feeling pretty shabby but nonetheless, I found myself getting up at 4.30 am in the pitch dark and preparing myself for a CHALLENGE. Yes, another one. As if six chemo sessions weren't enough.

Firstly, let me explain that the details of this particular CHALLENGE weren't exactly clear to me until I did some research ... um... the night before.

As it turns out, I had foolishly agreed to participate in an event called the Brisbane Kokoda Challenge, all thanks to my BFF Louisa who, I must report, at least up to that point, had, shall we say, a rather inflated idea of her physical skill sets.

To those of you who are not Australian, let me explain that the actual Kokoda Trail is in Papua New Guinea and, if you Google it, you will discover that it is not exactly a Yellow Brick Road along which one might gaily trip while perhaps clutching a picnic basket under one's arm and singing a stanza or two from a favourite Gilbert & Sullivan opera.

This may give you some insight as to what the purpose of the Brisbane Kokoda Challenge is: it's to expose the otherwise comfortably manicured amongst us to what it REALLY means to be strong and courageous... at least that's what they say. The adjective I would use, in the case of Louisa and me however is STUPID.

Because as it turns out, on Sunday I found myself on a 30km CHALLENGE, heaving my sorry carcass, creaking joints, and crippled Size 37 feet up hill, up another hill, and up another hill, down slippery mud, through overflowing creeks and checkpoints with appealing names like "Hellhole Break" along with 699 other participants, mostly in an age bracket well below mine. Or Louisa's.

What's more it seemed that, in the main, the aforementioned participants did seem to have TRAINED for this event and seemed quite well equipped with hiking sticks, top-of-the range rain gear and so on.

Still, we persevered and along the way, I believe I found a metaphor. (I do LOVE metaphors!).

You see, the Brisbane Kokoda Challenge is not unlike any challenge you or I may face, and for me, of course, it was a metaphor for my battle so far with cancer.

I found myself taking the hills easily with a head down bum up approach, as I do believe it is better to get the more difficult bits over and done with as quickly as possible. Perhaps this is how I approached chemotherapy: my hills.

On the most difficult and slipperiest climb (the only part where I really found myself puffing a bit), it was quite easy because we were so far behind that footholds had been created by the crowd that went ahead. It's a bit like breast cancer I think: the experience of those who have gone before me have helped me with my climb so far.

This event also made it compulsory for teams to stay together, so I could not leave Louisa who is older than me. At the top of those hills I was forced to be patient and wait for her as she struggled up those hills, a few steps at a time. Here she is close to the end.



While I waited, eating my way through my fruit and chocolate bars and sesame snacks and peanut butter sandwich, I thought to myself that we all really have to run our own race in life. I couldn't be Louisa's legs. I could only encourage her. We all run at different paces. We all have our own strengths. I'm good at hills. Louisa is good at flats. (No, she really is. We were pretty well paired in the end).

And finally, like this challenge, breast cancer is not a race. It's not about coming first. It's not about being better than anyone else. It's about finishing. And hopefully not carking it along the way.

I should report too, that several participants (younger than us!) pulled out of the challenge. I didn't and neither did Louisa. If nothing else: we are finishers!

Now, I can't say I felt particularly fabulous about the whole experience. I can't say the heavens opened up with any Hallelujahs as I crossed the finish line. Frankly, I was over it at the half way mark as I don't need to prove anything to anyone any more about what I'm capable of.

I'm just one of these people who believes that if you start something, you finish it, no matter what. (To my soccer friends, may I just say the words "Garry Toovey" ... so you know what I mean. To the rest of you: never mind!)

What Kokoda has taught me though is that when you take on a Challenge it does help to know what you're in for. (It would have helped to know, for example, that that last bloody hill was not actually the last one. Not even the second last one!)

I hope this blog has done that for people who have a diagnosis of breast cancer.

And I hope that, like those with breast cancer who have gone before me, my footsteps will help someone else make it up that mountain.

For now? I'm putting my feet up.

My only challenge is learning to get up and down those steps without leaning on anyone.

But if you find me struggling, you know I'll gladly take your hand.

Radiation Oncologist

Exactly four months since my initial diagnosis, with my rescued and nicely manicured wig in place (thanks to Maria and her sleight of hand), Al and I drive through a rainy Brisbane afternoon to meet my 'radiation oncologist' for the first time.

I've rescheduled this appointment no less than three times so I'm glad to finally be meeting her.

The Radiation Oncology Mater Center (ROMC) is directly opposite the Mater Mothers, and I can't help observing the juxtaposition of birth against a process generally associated with dying.

Located in a fairly old red-brick building, I present myself at the front counter and afterwards, go to sit in a virtually empty waiting room. I don't know how long this is going to take so look around for some reading material.

I am quietly amused to note the stack of novels on offer. Just how long do people have to wait here? A cursory inspection reveals that, thankfully, it's more a 'Mills and Boon' rather than a 'War and Peace' kind of waiting period. The tea urn, microwave and television also do not augur well, suggesting one should get comfortable.

It isn't too long though before I'm called in by Dr Judith Cox. She's older than I had imagined, a lady with a trendy short cut who immediately strikes me as being open, kind and friendly.

In what passes for her office, there's a little bit of a kerfuffle as we realise that several pieces of information are missing from my file and she's not 100% on the details of my case.

She doesn't know I've had a mastectomy, and then, I can't remember if I had one or two lumpectomies.

As we wait for the missing paperwork to be recovered, I launch directly into my pressing concern: whether I can wheedle my way out of radiation.

I talk about all my other friends with radiation, Kim who hasn't had chemo and I don't think she's had radiation either, Chrissy who didn't have radiation, Cathy who didn't have chemo, Mary who didn't have a mastectomy. Why do I have to have all four, including the hormone treatment? I'm going to have the other breast off. I'm pitching as hard as I can with Al also offering up any arguments he can.

You see, if I'm to have radiation, that will add weeks to my treatment.

But most vexingly, it will mean that I will have to wait six months until I can have a reconstruction and then, my options will be severely limited because of the extent of damage radiotherapy can do to your breast tissue.

The business of getting on with my life will be severely retarded.

As it is, initially, Dr Cox thinks I've only had one lumpectomy and she leads me to believe that perhaps radiation is unnecessary.

I can't believe my luck!

But when Dr Cox says she needs to see the results of all my procedures before she can provide a definitive answer, my hopes are quickly dashed.

I am interested in what the pathologist had to say about the results of my mastectomy: "The sections show residual classical lobular carcinoma in situ... There are three foci of residual invasive lobular carcinoma in this area measuring up to 2mm. There is extensive lobular carcinoma in situ throughout all quadrants of the breast. Further 2mm focus of invasive ovular carcinoma is present in the lower inner quadrant. The invasive and in situ carcinoma appear well clear of margins of excision. There is no lymphovascular invasion. There is no invasive ductal carcinoma identified. No lymph nodes are identified..."

To a layman, it would appear that surely, all is good? The margins are clear. The lymph nodes are not involved.

But Dr Cox is concerned about the occurrence of carcinoma in the inner quadrant which is the area closest to the sternum.

She produces a pen and starts writing in my file. She adds up the findings in the pathology report for each procedure I've had so far and it's close to five centimetres when she's finished.

I've already been through this with Dr Lambley so I'm not surprised.

Dr Cox says that my breasts are not particularly big (really!) which means the occurrence of carcinoma closer to the chest wall is a concern.

The verdict, alas, is that she strongly recommends radiotherapy. In fact, the look in her eye suggests I'd be a fool not to go through with it.

At this stage, it looks like five weeks with around 25 shots to be given in that period although this is still to be confirmed.

I ask her about side effects and she mentions skin changes in the treated area.

I ask her about fatigue and, apparently, if you've had chemotherapy, you won't notice any difference. (The fatigue can be chronic if you only have the radiation).

Dr Cox says I'll need to present next month for a 'planning meeting' and then, I'll commence radiation three weeks after my last chemo.

Apparently there is presently a 6-week wait for access to this service but I'll be sweet as I've come in to see her early enough so I'll be in the queue.

I can't say I'm excited. In fact, I feel as flat as, well, half my chest. It sucks.

That's five more weeks of being treated like a 'patient'. Five more weeks of hospitals. Twenty five more days of sitting in waiting rooms. An extra 50 hours minimum of travelling.

I know I should be grateful. Yesterday I spoke to Eddie who is doing some landscaping for us. He wanted to know about my bald head so I explained my situation.

Eddie used to be a bodybuilder. But he was also a smoker and you can tell from the raspy voice and the cough. (It's funny imagining him pushing weights and stopping in between sets for a drag on a Winfield Blue). Eddie had radiation and chemotherapy for both thyroid and pancreatic cancer he tells me. He received his treatment at the Atomic Research Centre in London. As a result of his chemo for thyroid cancer, the poor bugger lost all of his teeth. They fell out one by one. He was in his early 50s at the time.

He showed me his teeth and tapped them with a finger. "All false," he announced.

"Well, here you are live and kicking so I guess it's all worth it," I said.

"Yup," said Eddie. "I've got nothing to complain about."

"Yeah, we're really lucky, Eddie," I replied.

I'm lucky I have such great support - from medical staff, from family, from friends.

I'm lucky in so many ways.

Today my race simply got a little longer.

I'm just going to have to dig deeper for that second wind and hope like hell that when I cross the finishing line I won't be completely cactus.

What is there to do but buckle down.