Stacy, 56y/o F with breast CA

Stacy had been having a tumultuous 2 years. She had her routine mammogram, and thought nothing of it until her doctor called her. "Suspicious calcification" were the words he'd used. They'd need to do a biopsy, he'd said. And after some surgeon stuck a needle into her left breast, suddenly, she had cancer. It didn't seem real.

So next came the surgery, where this same surgeon took her whole breast off and cut up her armpit, and she toughed it out. Then came the other breast, and she toughed that out too. And she toughed through the radiation.

And then came the chemo. "Newer, more specific regimens" the oncologist said. "Fewer side effects" he promised. And yet, within days, she was bald and her mouth was full of sores. Sex hurt, and her husband had finally had enough of this. He left without so much as an explanation.

She had told her daughter, who was living with her boyfriend now. Her daughter had moved out on her 18th birthday, and wanted nothing to do with her controlling and overbearing mom. Her daughter was full of attitude, and was done living her parents' dreams. Stacy couldn't blame the girl. They weren't parental role models.

Stacy tried not to tell her about the cancer. No point in worrying her, and after all, they'd cut it all out. The radiation and the chemo, that was just for good measure, hopefully.

But it wasn't. And it didn't work. "Liver metastases" she was told when they started another course of chemo. Then bones. Then the brain. And more chemo. And more surgery. And more chemo. And she got used to wearing hats and throwing up. She even got into basketball, from all the lying in bed she did watching TV.

Her daughter looked after her on chemo days. She'd help her to the couch and get her something to eat. They didn't talk much. Things were so strained, but Stacy appreciated it. Her daughter tried to smile a lot and act cheerful, but it made her as sick as Stacy to see her mother like this. But in spite of all the treatments and surgery, the vomiting and fatigue, Stacy kept going. She didn't feel like a mother anymore. Her daughter seemed more like the mother now.

And only last week, the oncologist was full of hope. The chemo was working. It was a miracle, he'd told her. She was beating the odds. But she only felt worse. She was weak now, unbearably weak. She couldn't walk to the bathroom without gasping for air, and she couldn't breathe lying down. Her legs were all puffy, and the hair was not coming back. she didn't have the strength to eat, or the appetite.

The oncologist wanted to get an echo, he'd said, a fancy ultrasound of her heart, and lying there on the exam table, the ultrasound tech gasped. She called the oncologist and sent Stacy to the ER. "Severe heart failure" was the diagnosis. Her heart wasn't working.

Stacy lay in the ER, waiting to be admitted to the hospital, her heart putting out just enough blood to keep her awake, and answer questions she'd answered a hundred times. History of breast cancer, mastectomy, radiation and chemotherapy, liver and brain metastases. No other medical problems. Vidocin for pain control. Ativan for her nerves. Prozac so she could look in the mirror at her scarred chest and not kill herself.

Stacy asked for her ex-husband. A reconciliation seemed appropriate. But her ex never came. He was terse over the phone. A brief "Hope you feel better" was all he could muster. Hope, hope, hope. The doctors were all so full of hope, but Stacy knew what hope was worth. Her daughter never left her bedside. She held onto Stacy's hand, as if her grip could keep death away.

Stacy died due to severely decompensated heart failure.