My mother's story
WEDNESDAY, MAY 28, 2008Though I wish my story was unique, it is not – we all know someone affected by breast cancer.
Initial Diagnosis
In September 1995, I was like any other Mom. My children were eight and nine years old, and I was busy with practices and household errands. My days were unremarkable, though always busy. I would get my boys up, showered and ready for school. After making them breakfast, I would send them on their way.It was on one of these unremarkable mornings that I found something. I noticed a hard lump, on my left breast.
Diagnosis and Treatment
The next minutes, hours, and days are all a blur for me. I am a registered nurse, and my husband is a physician. I was used to being the insider – the one helping the patients. But that one lump turned my world upside down. Instead of being the insider, knowing the diagnosis before the patient, understanding and implementing treatments with which I was familiar, I became the patient. I became the outsider. I felt like I was taken from a world in which I was very comfortable.As the days and weeks blurred, everything progressed quickly. I consulted with my good friend Barbara Schepps, M.D., a leading radiologist in Rhode Island. The lump was biopsied. I received my diagnosis. My doctors performed a Left Radical Mastectomy. In a matter of two weeks, two little words changed my life: Breast Cancer.
Breast Cancer: twelve letters, three syllables, infinite consequences.
It is impossible to describe what it feels like after you lose a breast. I did not realize, before my surgery, how much of my identity as a woman was tied to my breasts. They gave me my shape, and I suddenly felt incomplete.
I listened as the doctors told me how fortunate I was because the cancer hadn’t spread to my lymph nodes. As much as they considered that a triumph, I cannot say I felt the same way. In fact, I bet it is a rarity that a woman who endures months of chemotherapy and the related nausea and hair loss immediately after losing a breast feels “fortunate.” Despite how I felt on the inside, I took their words and felt the support of everyone around me, and I tried to feel whole again.
In addition to the support I felt from my doctors, extended family, and friends, I would not have survived without my family, my husband Bob, sons Matthew and Mark. The morning I lost all of my hair we laughed at the spectacle. This laughter, their love and support, gave me the strength I needed to face each day of chemotherapy.
Three and a half years later, I felt like my cancer was under control. I was halfway through a five-year regimen of Tamoxifen. I finally felt fortunate, and I wanted to do something to help others like myself who were living with breast cancer. Thus, Team Tarro was born. The name is not exactly creative so much as descriptive – it was a team of Tarros – my husband, our children, my stepchildren, my siblings, their families, and myself. We signed up as a team to participate in the American Cancer Society’s Making Strides Against Breast Cancer Awareness Walk. Our team quickly grew to include our extended family and friends. Each year, we were joined by new members – friends of family and coworkers. Last year, we had approximately 200 dedicated participants.
Cancer-Free?
My Tamoxifen treatment ended in 2000, and I was declared “cancer free.” The English language lacks a word that appropriately expresses how I felt – elated does not even come close. To celebrate, I decided to participate as a survivor in the Avon 3-day Breast Cancer Walk held in Boston. A celebration is nothing without family, and each of my five siblings enthusiastically agreed to walk with me, and share my achievement. Together we raised $20,000, and we each walked 20 miles a day for three days. This walk was an amazing experience for us, and we bonded in a way I will cherish for the rest of my life. (It is amazing how the good times memorialized shine brighter as each day passes, while the not so great times, including my brothers’ snoring and the numerous blisters, fade away with time).
Continuing Battle
My celebration was, however, short lived. In late 2000, my oncologist noticed that my white blood cell count was increasing each month. (For those of you who aren’t medical professionals – that’s not good . . .). Several vials of blood later (not to mention the arm bruises), I was diagnosed with Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia (CLL). My doctor explained that CLL is more of an annoyance than anything else, and is not life threatening at this time. Another speed bump, I assumed, and I continued to work and raise my family.
Ten years after I first felt that lump in my breast, I felt a similar lump in my neck. I immediately knew I needed to see my doctor. A short time later, after a biopsy, the results were in: the diagnosis: breast cancer, the sequel. However, the pathology results suggested something interesting and unexpected. While I had been declared “cancer free” in 2000, the results suggested that my breast cancer was never eradicated, but instead, it lay hidden in my body.
I felt as though the rug had been pulled out from under me. I reached out to my good friend, Barbara Schepps, M.D., for support. She is a radiologist at the Anna G. Pappas Center, at Rhode Island Hospital. With her guidance, I had a PET scan, a CT scan, and a bone scan, as well as all of the required blood work.The scans indicated that the cancer had spread to my spine. I received radiation treatment to my spine. I went to the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston, for further consultation. There, I met my current oncologist, Ann Partridge, M.D.
Dr. Partridge prescribed Femara, which I took from March 2006 until January 2008. I have monthly intravenous treatments of Zometa, a drug that helps to maintain bone integrity. Every three months, I undergo CT scans and bone scans, to monitor the progress of my cancer.
In February 2008, I felt drained, tired, and I had a persistent cough and some shortness of breath. A chest X-ray and a CT scan showed that fluid had collected around my lung, and would need to be drained. This fluid is due to my cancer. As a result, I am part of a study. The fluid will be part of a breast carcinoma malignant effusion harvest, to possibly be used in future clinical trials. The cancer cells in my effusion may be used to develop experimental vaccines to treat breast cancer.
My daily Femara was changed to a monthly shot of Fulvestrant (Faslodex). The Faslodex did not stop the growth of the breast cancer. At the end of May 2008, I started my second round of chemotherapy.
Living with Cancer
I recognize that I still have cancer. I am not dying from cancer; I am living with cancer. I am fortunate. Despite cancer, I am living a happy, fulfilling life surrounded by loving family and friends. Thank you for taking the time to read my story – I hope you have found it both poignant and inspiring, and I hope it encourages you to support Team Tarro, Inc. in any way possible.How can you help?We are a volunteer organization. No one gets paid. Everyone who holds an office, solicits donations, sells tickets, or registers walkers, volunteers to do so. All of the proceeds raised go to organizations dedicated to Breast Cancer research and early detection. We simply cover the cost of running our events (and even for these we solicit as many donations and discounts as possible). I could not be prouder of our accomplishments as a team.Our fund-raising goal for 2008 is to raise as much money as possible to help fund breast cancer research at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and to promote early detection by providing screening mammograms at Barbara Schepps, MD. Mammogram Screening Center.
I hope that you will help Team Tarro in whatever way that you can to support both research and early detection. Together we can make a difference.
-Mary Elizabeth Tarro
CEO, BOSS, BEST FRIEND, MOM