By Betsy Keith
For some reason, in the back of my mind, I often thought, I bet I’ll be: That Girl. You know, the one who gets breast cancer.
Still, it was a hard pill to swallow when my doctor said, “Betsy, it’s cancer.”
Getting that call was surreal. I didn’t know how to process what my doctor was telling me. I took a shaky breath and wondered: Is this really happening? I didn’t want to be among the women who receive a breast cancer diagnosis with no “opt-out” tab.
And thus began my breast cancer story.
I was stunned to learn that the chemo-infusion process can take up to five hours – that’s after getting labs done, waiting for them to process, and then meeting with my oncologist!
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Twenty-nine days after my cancer diagnosis, a nurse escorted me into the infusion center for the first time.
As I turned the corner, I saw a large, colorless room filled with soft gray recliners that looked quite comfortable. I scanned the occupants.
Some patients, like me, appeared perfectly healthy.
Others bore evidence of having been in the battle a while — thin arms, bald heads.
Still in denial, I remember thinking, Oh, these poor souls, so sick. I’m thankful I’m not ill like them.
Nurses scurried around, tending to patients. I heard soft voices and the periodic beeping from the chemo drip machines. The room smelled like antiseptic, sterile. I immediately longed for the soft scents of home.
I was surprised to see such a wide age range of patients. Beautiful young women up to distinguished older adults. (Cancer doesn’t discriminate.) The bald heads on some jarred my senses, and I swallowed, thinking about what awaited me.
I silently recited a prayer for those in the room (and myself).
A kind and gentle nurse led me to an empty chair beside a middle-aged woman with short, gray-streaked hair. She was lovely, and I wondered if she, too, was battling breast cancer. I was too shy and rattled to speak to her, but she smiled at me.
The nurse hooked me up to receive the drugs called AC, for short. She spoke softly and explained the process, knowing it was my first infusion. I was thankful for her tender mercies.
AC, one of the most potent drugs for fighting breast cancer, has earned the name the “Red Devil” because the red-liquid medication is mean and nasty. Any nurse administering it wears hazmat-like protection from the neck down.
The irony that the lethal stuff was going to be shot inside my body while the nurse wore protective gear was terrifying!
The chemical was ice-cold going into my veins. I shuddered and pulled my blanket closer.
Because of these drugs, my oncologist told me to expect my hair to fall out on Day 17. Even a cold cap wouldn’t help me keep my hair; the drugs were too strong. I dreaded Day 17.
But on Day 1, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
The battle had begun.
Betsy Keith, a Park Cities and Preston Hollow resident for more than 40 years, adapted this column from her book, ‘This One’s for the Girls: Embracing the Sisterhood of Breast Cancer and the God Who Holds Us Fast’ (published on June 27). She hopes her story helps women with cancer and those who walk beside them learn, plan, and navigate this intense life event. Copies are available at Logos Bookstore in Snider Plaza.
