It
all started relatively innocuously in late 1991. Sue detected
a small lump in her right breast. Her local GP told her it
was probably benign but recommended a mammogram. This showed
no sign of malignancy. Although worried, I knew that lumps
were not uncommon for women and, that in many cases, they
were benign. So, I hoped for the best, the mammogram confirming
that things were OK.
For about a year nothing much changed but another GP now recommended,
that to be on the safe side, Sue have the lump removed. He
referred her to a surgeon and it looked as though it would
be pretty straightforward. I dropped Sue off early morning
at one of the hospitals on the fringe of the city, expecting
that she would be out within 24 hours. About ninety minutes
later the surgeon called me to say that the lump was malignant.
He asked me to go with him to tell Sue that afternoon. I was
totally unprepared for this and in a state of absolute shock.
I was both upset and fearful – thirty-five years earlier
when I was a small boy, my aunt had undergone a mastectomy
to remove a malignant lump, and within six years she was dead.
My fear was that Sue had been carrying this lump for a year
and that it would have metastasized. I braced myself to go
to the hospital and tell her – one of the toughest tasks
I have ever had. Sue was calmer than I on the day although
she was clearly frightened. She had to undergo another operation
to remove lymph nodes but, much to our relief, there was no
sign of spreading and since it was a small lump the outlook
looked positive. Radiotherapy followed and by May life was
returning to normal.
Our peace of mind was to be shattered shortly after. In June
I went away on business for a few days (one of the ironies
is that most of the negative events seem to hit just after
I have had a very busy period involving work interstate or
overseas!), to return and find Sue very upset because she
had found a small lump in her other breast. The net result
was a repeat of the lumpectomy and radiotherapy treatment,
followed by a five-year course of Tamoxifen. At this point,
both of us knew the cancer could kill her. Up to then, we
had hoped it would be an isolated incident and that would
be the end of it. It made me feel very insecure about the
future; underlining how uncertain things can be when you are
dealing with cancer. It certainly made me reflect on what
life was all about and it shifted my priorities away from
work and towards Sue.
Four years passed and life had changed a bit. Sue was fit
and well and had given up paid employment to concentrate on
voluntary work. She had a routine check and all seemed well.
We travelled to Tasmania to do the Lake St Claire / Cradle
Mt walk with other family members. We had a great time. On
our return, there was a message from the hospital that there
appeared to be something on the mammogram. The something was
DCIS (a pre-cancerous condition) in the right breast, and
the surgeon recommended a mastectomy. Sue has desperately
tried to avoid having a mastectomy because of her fear of
disfigurement. Several months pass and Sue cannot make up
her mind – in the end she opts for having the DCIS in
her breast removed. For me it reinforces the risk Sue is under
but, I comfort myself that DCIS is not invasive.
Three more years go by. I return from a business trip to Hong
Kong on a Saturday. The weekend passes pleasantly. I am about
to leave for work early Monday morning when Sue tells me that
she is going for a check-up that day and she is pretty certain
she has a new lump in her right breast. Again, I feel that
sickening lurch. Tests confirm there is a malignant lump and
that the breast has to be removed. It underlines that Sue
is in a very high-risk situation and the chances of breast
cancer killing her are rising. The only positive is that bone
and CAT scans and blood tests show no sign of tumours elsewhere.
Sue decides to have both breasts removed followed by a course
of chemotherapy – four bursts of AC at three week intervals
starting three weeks after the operation. As at the end of
January, she is mid-way through the treatment – feeling
tired and a bit unwell and ‘bald as a coot’. On
the whole, her spirits are good but she has her down days.
As a partner you ride the roller-coaster of emotions from
hope - to fear - to frustration, with an underlying deep tinge
of sadness that this is happening to the person you love.
The hope is that the dark cloud of cancer will recede and
disappear. The fear is that it will not, and you will lose
the person you love. This is combined with the even deeper
fear of how you will cope if the cancer does become a terminal
illness and you have to cope with gradual decline and death.
The frustration is that you can do little other than be a
supporter and carer. For me the hope that Sue will live long
years has not disappeared, although I know the odds are against
that. I know that we have to make the best of the present
and that is what I focus on. The positive side of the experience
has been that it has brought us closer together and our relationship,
over the last ten years, has strengthened. |
