Third Opinion

My angel friends in Houston took good care of me.  They drove me to appointments, took notes, and took along an audio tape recorder.  They picked up meds, took me out to lunch, and gave me moral support.  I was blessed!

A couple of days after Round Two, I became extremely ill as I boarded my flight back to Seattle.  Good thing for me that I knew one of the flight attendants.  She graciously escorted me to a seat in the last row of First Class and tucked me in with a blanket.  I grabbed a barf bag for security and tried not to think about dying enroute.  I didn't throw up and didn't die, and miraculously felt fully recovered when we landed in Seattle.

After that fiasco, I decided that commuting for chemo was not such a good idea. What was I thinking, leaving my seventeen-year-old-son at home, 3,000 miles away?  In my state of panic to go to Houston because of its reputation for Cancer Research, I had not been thinking clearly.

On the Friday before Christmas, my daughter Meg, son Doug, and I met with a team of University of Washington Medical Center physicians for a complete evaluation.  The process began at noon and continued until 8:00 p.m.  A third opinion?  Why not!  To fight my battle, I needed all the expert advice I could get.

During the appointment, the doctors presented a new term: Inflammatory Breast Cancer.  I had the signs which included a pinkish rash, warmness that comes and goes, and a swollen breast with no lump.  "Couldn't this be a scrape from the board that hit me?" I asked.  No, the team was certain of the diagnosis which was an aggressive and serious form of breast cancer (and a form represented in only four per cent of all breast cancer patients, I would learn later).

In spite of delivering bad news, the doctors were upbeat and positive.  When my son asked how long it would take for me to be cured, the word cured was not addressed.  I would be in treatment for several months, and I could possibly be facing a stem cell treatment, they said.  The best thing going for me was that I already had two treatments.  I was overjoyed when the doctors said that they would accept me as a patient at the UW Medical Center.  I felt safe and secure with this team of experts.

I would miss Dr. Price and my Houston friends.  How could I adequately express my appreciation to the doctor who started me on my life-saving program?  In my fragile, emotional state, the word inflammatory was never spoken.  From a caring doctor, his attentive staff, and my dear friends, I received the gift of Hope.

Next page...
< Go to Start | Go to End >