A Diet to Die For! Breast Cancer in Canada.

An article in The Vancouver Sun entitled “B.C. breast cancer tests under external review” after 22 women died (out of 58 women — that’s a shocking 40%!) underscores the necessity that women need to be their own advocate when they think something is wrong. You can read the article by clicking here.

If you have a doctor telling you that the lump is likely nothing more than a cyst or is nothing to worry about — and they haven’t conducted any tests to make that medical conclusion — and you have this instinctual feeling that concerns you, please, please, get a 2nd opinion — any maybe even a 3rd opinion.

I’m not suggesting that you find a medical practitioner that will tell you what you want to hear, but you need to be diligent about your own health and make decisions that will keep you alive longer — who cares if the doctor you’ve been going to since you were a baby thinks you’re over-reacting! Or the doctor at the walk-in/urgent care clinic thinks you’re a psych case! If you feel something is wrong, then there just might be something to be concerned about and you need to get another opinion.

This is Canada — the land of free healthcare! So what if getting a 2nd or 3rd opinion is inconvenient … so is planning a funeral … I’m sure you wouldn’t want to put your friends and family through that inconvenience either.

When the lump I had was unusually painful, I persisted in going back to the doctor after she said it’s probably a cyst and prescribed me anti-inflammatories. When the pain persisted, I kept going back to her and within a few months and many tests later, including a biopsy, it was confirmed that I had advanced breast cancer … from start to finish, from October 2008 to February 2009, I had a modified radical mastectomy and am alive today.

If I were here today with a painful lump, I’m quite sure I would be in Stage 3 or 4 now … and perhaps with only a life expectancy of a few years. I’d much rather live with one boob than be told I’ll be dead in a few years.

How much more proof do you need? Unless your doctor is Dr. Parnassus (see Heath Ledger’s trailer for the last film he will ever be involved with), you hopefully should have nothing to fear … for those not in the know about his tragic life, here is a link to Heath Ledger’s biography.

A few weeks ago I had an appointment with a well-respected plastic surgeon in Toronto — I’ll call her Dr. T — same personality as Mr. T., but with less gold.

I had been thinking about the various options for a few months now: do I want implants? I was about 80% sure I would get implants because they are less invasive and I presumed I could be back to work within a few days.

Unfortunately since I had gangrene and likely prone to infections, Dr. T. tells me I’m absolutely 100% not a candidate for implants.

That leaves a TRAM Flap — okay, not so bad to get a tummy tuck and new boobs at 50, I thought.

Let me backtrack a moment …

I get to this very posh office with Google map in hand and the 2 assistants seem quite bored. One of them, who appears to have had a lot of work done on her face, gives me the usual questionnaire to fill out. I always fill these out and usually ask for an extra piece of paper so I can be as verbose as possible.

The other receptionist, approximately my age, perhaps in her mid-50s, tells me that I need to see pictures — I tell her I don’t need to see pictures of tits, because I know what they look like, and can have a pretty good idea of what post-surgery might look like. She tells me I have no choice.

Once in this large room with a computer and this woman hovering over my shoulder, she clicks away at all the post-op women. Other than some women are prone to keloids, there’s nothing unusual — she says that they never know who will get keloids and that they are easily fixed with laser surgery.

At the end of this tit-viewing session, she points to this stack of paper and tells me it’s a waiver I need to sign and she leaves me alone in this room with this legal document.

After reading it, I decide not to sign it — it basically tells me that I have no “moral and legal rights to the photographs” that they’ll be taking of me.

Since she’s left the room, I can’t ask any questions, so I don’t sign it.

Back to Dr. T.

She has the questionnaire I signed and is asking me the same questions that’s on the questionnaire.

When we get to the “infection” portion of the questionnaire, she stops me, and says she’s confused … “what?” she protests. So I explained what happened with the necrotic tissue during surgery, and I must have screwed up her script. Yes, it seems like she’s reading a script — she’s not personable at all.

I try to interrupt with questions — after all, we are talking about me.

She tells me to stop talking and wait until she’s finished reading her script.

Of course by the end of her script, I can’t remember a darn thing.

A few other weird things happen in the office, and I won’t bore you with the details.

Dr. T. does tell me even more bad news — I have permanent nerve damage in my arm and chest — she was quite peeved at my surgeon for not telling me that it’s permanent — oh I can’t wait to see Dr. Ewan in September and let him know he might want to rethink his referral database.

To say the least, the paperwork she gave me explaining the breast reconstruction surgery is terrifying — and if someone has a lot of belly fat, she won’t do the surgery — hey another good reason to stay healthy so I guess that means no more french fries for me!

She says she’s booking for September — hell if she’s going to lay a scalpel on me just yet — I’ve barely had a minute to think about cancer and now I have to think about more surgery? Maybe next year I think.

OHIP pays for all these reconstruction surgeries — it’s not a single operation, so keep that in mind — it’s done in stages.

Perhaps that’s why Dr. T. and her assistants weren’t that nice with me — I’m viewed as a government freebie, rather than a cash cow — if that’s not their intention, they should try being a patient in their own office.

So if you are still smoking and are a big fat girl, I’m surprised you’re still alive …

Because cancer is the easy part: now I understand why women opt not to have the reconstruction as it could mean many months of convalescing — and the last time I checked my bank account, I can’t afford to lie in bed and eat bon bons … oh yeah, that will kill me …