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By Komen Denver, September 22, 2009 1:01 pm

Meet Karen Michlas, a breast cancer survivor who found her lump in a self exam due to Buddy Check 9.

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By Komen Denver, September 9, 2009 4:24 pm

My BEAUTIFUL family

by Monica Pacheco

My husband and I, both Allstate Agents, were invited to attend the Pink Tie Affair in November of 2008.  Allstate has been sponsoring the event for two years now.  It was a great event.  My husband and I talked about how we did not know of anyone with breast cancer.  When it came time to recognize those that have been impacted by cancer, I remember how it made me think twice because I was scheduled for a follow up ultrasound two weeks later. Little did I know the follow-up ultrasound would show the pea size lump in my right breast had changed.  I was concerned, but thought I would be fine as I DO NOT have a family history of breast cancer.  I was scheduled for a biopsy on December 16, and on December 17, 2008, I received the dreaded phone call from the radiologist.  I was told I had a very small tumor, ductal carcinoma, and next to it, I had ductal carcinoma in situ.  I was terrified, angry and sad.  My first thought was “oh my God, I am going to die,” and my second thought was “it can’t be true, I have 2 young children.”  I was told I would also have to have a lymph node biopsy.  The biopsy confirmed that the cancer had spread to one lymph node.  This was all surreal to me.

It is approximately 8 1/2 months later.  I made it through surgeries, 6 rounds of aggressive chemotherapy (TAC), and now I am going through radiation with reconstruction on the horizon.    As I look back on the past several months, I am amazed at how far I have come on this journey.  I survived surgeries and setbacks with surgery.  I survived doctors telling me it appears only one lymph node is cancerous only to find seven positive lymph nodes.  I survived with the help of my wonderful husband, 2 beautiful children, my friends and my Allstate family.

For me, my life is forever changed.  For Allstate, they have stepped up their sponsorship this year and will now be sponsoring not only Pink Tie Affair but Komen Denver Race for the Cure® in support of all those who are fighting and are survivors of breast cancer.  Allstate will also be donating $1 for every auto quote generated in Colorado to the Denver Affiliate of Susan G. Komen for the Cure from September 15 – October 15, 2009.  I am grateful for being a part of a company who believes in this fight. I too am a fighter, and now I am a SURVIVOR!

My Angels

AllState Angels

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By Komen Denver, September 8, 2009 7:34 am

By Jenny Atchley

Several weeks before having a double mastectomy, I hosted a funeral for my boobs.  The proceedings could have passed as an actual funeral, except for one thing: there was way too much laughing.  And boy, did I need to laugh at what I was about to do: chop off my breasts in a daring, preemptive move to rid myself of them, before they rid themselves of me.

It all started last year, when doctors discovered a golf-ball sized cancerous tumor in my colon.  I was 27.  Since I didn’t fit the typical demographic of most colon cancer patients, doctors recommended genetic testing to see if my various relatives who’d succumbed to cancer had anything to do with my diagnosis.  Turns out, they did.

I tested positive for a genetic mutation called BRCA1, which causes tumor suppressor cells to malfunction, creating significant cancer risks.  People with BRCA1 have up to an 80 percent chance of developing breast cancer and up to a 50 percent chance of developing ovarian cancer.  (To compare, the general population has a 13 percent chance of getting breast cancer and a 2 percent chance of getting ovarian cancer, according to the American Cancer Society.)

Women in my situation face a disconcerting choice: screen regularly for the rest of their lives, wondering every time if cancer will be detected, or preempt cancer’s appearance by undergoing prophylactic surgery.  Although the second option doesn’t come with a 100 percent guarantee that cancer won’t show up (since it’s impossible to remove literally every cell of breast or ovarian tissue), removing these organs while they’re healthy still greatly reduces the risk that cancer will infiltrate the remaining cells.

At first, I thought cutting away perfectly healthy body parts to avoid another cancer diagnosis was crazy.  Then my own screening routine began.  My ovarian cancer screenings began innocuously enough.  But after my very first breast MRI detected an abnormality spread throughout my right breast, I landed back in the operating room for an MRI-guided biopsy.  Waiting for the results, I was an emotional wreck.  Was it possible that I’d have two different cancers before I turned 30?!  Many women dread turning 30 because they believe it shines a glaring spotlight on what they have or haven’t achieved to that point, but my focus was elsewhere.  If they didn’t find breast cancer this time, would they the next time?  Or the time after that?  Would I even make it to 30?

The abnormality was benign, but the experience still left me rattled.  My surgeon informed me that scar tissue from the biopsy would forever after appear as a dark spot on future scans, which would raise the perpetual question: is it just scar tissue, or is it cancer?  He assured me that I’d have to undergo biopsies regularly from that point forward, just to make sure it really was only scar tissue.  That knowledge amplified the overwhelming question in my mind: to chop, or not to chop?

Not long after, I was walking along a street when suddenly a photo of my grandmother, dead from breast cancer long before I was born, popped into my head.  She’d died young, partly because she found a breast lump and did nothing about it until the tumor had grown too big and it was way too late to save her.  I hardly believe in ghosts, but as I walked I was struck by a sudden, overwhelming presence of her.  The odds favored my eventually getting breast cancer, and I interpreted this strange spiritual sensation as my grandmother urging me not to sit back and repeat her mistake.  It wasn’t until I decided to have a double mastectomy that the sense of her left me as promptly as it had arrived.  I haven’t been able to deliberately conjure a clear mental picture of her since.

I scheduled the surgery at The Center for Restorative Breast Surgery in New Orleans, where surgeons would perform the mastectomy and a specialized procedure to reconstruct my breasts by implanting fat tissue taken from my hips.  The procedure would ensure that my new set of ladies looked and felt as natural as possible.  But despite my resolve to flash the threat of breast cancer a defiant middle finger, I was still on edge.  I cried often, lamenting my crummy luck and the looming reality of losing my breasts.

That’s when my husband finally insisted that I find some way to laugh in the midst of so much turmoil.  He suggested a boob funeral, a gathering of women to honor the innocence I’d lost and find joy in what I still had to lose.

The backdrop was an outdoor boob graveyard, where tombstones (make that “moundstones”) shaped like pairs of upside-down breasts honored the likes of Holly’s Hooters, Tina’s Ta-Ta’s, and Betty’s Boobies (followed by the epitaph “B.I.P., Bounce in Peace”).  My moundstone read: Jenny’s Jugs, 28 and Still Perky.”

Continue reading 'My Boob Funeral'»

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By Komen Denver, September 4, 2009 4:08 pm

By Jackie Wesley, breast cancer survivor 6 years

My Story:

At the age of 39 on September 11, 2003 I was diagnosed with stage IIIB breast cancer. Being diagnosed was not a total surprise. I experienced my first breast lump at the age of 15, then a series of lumps at the ages of 23, 32 and diagnosed at 39.

While understanding through my faith that I one day would be diagnosed with breast cancer, each time I had a lump extracted I was prepared to hear; you have breast cancer.

My breast cancer was aggressive; it had spread into my lymph nodes and my chest cavity. Due to the fact of my series of lumpectomies I decided even before I was informed of the stage of cancer that I wanted to have a bilateral mastectomy. My decision was based on my past history. I knew I did not want to walk down the same road twice with these diseases by having a recurrence later in my life. After undergoing chemotherapy and radiation, I am now living a normal healthy life.

My Play

“Living with Breast Cancer Through Christ” is an autobiography of a Breast Cancer Survivor.

The play is based on my personal story. The play is a call to action to all women and men to know how important it is to get checked / tested yearly for breast cancer, or twice a year if you have family history.

The play is emotional, funny and educational. It provides educational information about the terminology that is discussed by your physicians and it provides a close look into the life style of Christian women who was determined to not allow the battle to win the war over her life.

If you’re interested in attending the play, call 303-704-2958 for ticket information.

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By Komen Denver, September 2, 2009 12:10 pm

by Jane Lorimer

Having breast cancer is not an easy diagnosis to hear. The “C” word alone is a daunting hurdle to overcome under any terms.

Breast cancer comes in many forms—from stages to types of cancer and related types of treatments.   It assaults our physical health, our self image and our mental well-being.  When treatment requires more invasive treatments such as breast removal and /or chemotherapy – it takes yet another toll.

During these times especially, it is helpful to have a support network to help you through the treatments and keep you going.  I have no family to support me, so I turned to a local area breast cancer support group made up of women who were in various stages of diagnoses and treatments. These women come from diverse backgrounds and in all shapes and sizes. The common threads were we all have breast cancer and to me, they are all beautiful people.

My support group became my security blanket—a place to share my fears, tears and celebrations.  They helped me through chemo and radiation and the sheer emotional drain.  I could be myself and not feel I had to put on a happy face all the time.  Friends are great to have and believe me, they helped me through some tough times, but my support sisters were my greatest support – still are.

The bottom line is that family and friends can only listen to so many words – they need a break from the drama and the worry.  In support groups, we can laugh, talk and cry together about the same things over and over, and we understand why we need to do that.

Most oncology clinics can route you to a support group.   My regular group is at RMCC Aurora.  The biggest support group of all is through the Susan G. Komen Denver Affiliate.  They bring us education, financial aid to underserved women, opportunities for health fair access and research to help us survive this insidious disease.  It is an international bond of women fighting together for a common cause.

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By Komen Denver, August 31, 2009 9:44 am

by Kelly Dillon

It is what every piece of literature you’ve read or infomercial you’ve seen or Doctor has ever told you to look for since you were in your early twenties…a small, round, firm lump.

This is where my journey began; 7 days after my 40^th birthday I became a statistic, where one in seven women OR men get Breast Cancer.  I was diagnosed with Stage II breast cancer on August 12, 2008.  Healthy, active and no family history.  My first thought was of my children…Would I get to see Michael, 9, pitch in the Big Leagues?  Would I get to see Claudia, 8, become the world’s greatest International Ambassador?  And Hayley, 6, become the first red-headed astronaut to build aqueducts on Mars? Yes, a bit over the top, but I am a mom first.

The information highway came next…3 weeks’ worth of reading everything we could get our hands on; doctors, doctors and more doctors; second opinions and third opinions; needles scans and more needles!  I am a “fixer” by nature (tests do confirm!) so wandering around for 3 weeks not doing anything about this “tumor” lodged in my breast was more than I could handle.  I wanted to make a decision and do it NOW.  But, as anyone who has run across this monster will tell you, “Everyone is different”.  THAT is the understatement of the year.

By September 12^th, one month from diagnosis, I was in the operating room having a bi-lateral mastectomy with breast reconstruction.  Five hours later, I was feeling like a Mac truck hit me, stayed for awhile and then drove off VERY slowly.  Recovery was the easy part I found out.  What entered my world next was mind-blowing…CHEMOTHERAPY. Another dreaded “C” word.

We spent the next 3 weeks while I recovered from surgery immersing ourselves in everything we could find on this treatment and its side-effects.  It is the ugly stick of medicine; a necessary evil for cancer survivors to decrease our chances of recurrence and to give us a more strengthened life-line in the future.  My first treatment was the day following The Race for the Cure last year.  Fifty-Three of my closest friends walked with my family to support The Cure.  I was at the top of my game, mentally, when I walked into the chemo clinic on that Monday morning to start the 5 hour “Chemo Cocktail”.  Six radical and aggressive treatments and four months later, I emerged a “new woman”.  No hair and a little weak, but still able to ski with my kids!

But, the “Preventative Maintenance” (as I like to call it) didn’t stop there.  I had surgery 2 weeks later to have my expanders removed and my implants put in.  A few weeks after that recovery I started 7 weeks of radiation therapy.  Although necessary, it is extremely a pain in the backside (not where they radiated!)  A seven-minute procedure that takes 2 ½ hrs with drive time involved!  My carbon footprint was very bad for those 7 weeks.  During this daily task, I also went back in for a full hysterectomy!  They had found a dermoid on one of my ovaries at the beginning of my diagnosis and decided that it was time to do something about it.

Luckily in mid-April of this year, I was finally able to stop going to hospitals, clinics, etc.  I now go in for testing every three months until they release me for a longer period of time.  This disease teaches you many lessons in life – the largest for me was to believe in myself, learn to accept support graciously, and be confident in the team you choose to “save” your life.  I was lucky to be able to hand-pick my team and lean on them for guidance and support throughout this process.  My family and friends were and continue to be my “rock” and I will always love them for that.

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By Komen Denver, August 27, 2009 9:31 am

Our broadcast media sponsor 9News is helping us tell the many stories of the survivors who participate in Race for the Cure. Meet Amy Caldwell Bixby who was diagnosed with breast cancer while pregnant with her seventh child. Her message to the community is that don’t assume you can’t have cancer even if you don’t have major risk factors.

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By Komen Denver, August 19, 2009 9:33 am

Marcus and Saundra (Photo Courtesty of Sandy Puc)

by Saundra Robinson

We had planned to spend the day together. Maybe do some shopping, dinner and a movie. After-all, we were newlyweds. The only thing “planned” for the day was my routine mammogram. I had one every year as recommended and religiously did my self-breast exam monthly. So with my wonderful and very patient husband, Marcus in-tow, we headed to Kaiser. When the exam was completed, I dressed and was ready to spend the remains of the day with Marcus. That’s when our lives changed. Forever.

My heart began to pound as we took several more pictures of my breasts. Marcus was now in the room as I began to dress. The nurse came in and said the radiologist wanted to speak with us. In a very calm voice, she told us she was suspicious of some “white spots” on the mammogram and that they could possibly be cancerous. Marcus held my hand even tighter as she recommended a biopsy be done to confirm or rule-out her suspicions.

Several days passed, the biopsy was done, and several more days passed by. The phone rang as I was walking down the stairs of our home. “It’s the radiologist”, Marcus said. “You have breast cancer”, she said. DCIS, ductal carcinoma insitu. At that point, I was numb. I couldn’t hear anything else she said. I put her on speaker and we listened to the first of many conversations that we would have with our health care team over the next 8 months. There was to be a second biopsy and a plan of attack was being formulated. The one thing that gave us a sliver of hope was that she said “Of all the cancers to have, this is the one I would pick.”  That was April 2006.

Over the next 8 weeks, we had several appointments that included our surgeons: general and reconstructive. Marcus became very knowledgeable on our cancer and it’s treatment. He went in fully prepared to be our advocate and to make certain that we were comfortable with the plan of care. Not being able to completely grasp all that was happening, I asked about what I could do after surgery was complete. “Can I still run marathons?” My surgeon said “Absolutely, but you must give yourself time to heal.”

In May, I ran the inaugural Colfax marathon (my 11th marathon) with cancer in my breast tissue and a broken toe, which I did while carrying my youngest grandson down the stairs. The Denver Post covered our story as a result of Marcus having a bright yellow sign stating the above and his continued support along the marathon route. All I wanted to do was finish the marathon under 6:00:00, which we did. Our next hurdle was June 29. The day I would lose both of my breasts.

Our breast cancer was found through digital mammography. No lumps or pain noted before the exam. There was no involvement of the lymph nodes, so chemo and radiation were not needed. I was given the choice of just doing the left side where the cancer was found, or both. Having to go through the next year wondering if we’d find cancer in the right side would have made me crazy. My breasts have never defined who I am as a woman, so it was easy to let them go. Marcus loved me for me, and not for my breasts. The decision was made.

Fast-forward to the first Sunday in December. The air is brisk, it’s still dark outside and I am running along a dirt road to warmup for the Tucson marathon. Five months after having a double mastectomy, I’m running my 12th marathon. My toe has healed and my reconstruction has been completed. My cancer is gone. We hope. There are days when life gets so busy that I forget that I’m a survivor. However what I don’t forget is that “I am the Cure” because I tell my story at every chance. I show women considering surgery my breast, so they can see that disfiguring is no longer an acceptable result of surgery. I remember that as a marathon runner, I can do anything. And every year I look into the ocean of Pink at the Denver Race for the Cure and marvel at the support, love and remembrance for everyone touched by breast cancer and know that with every step, we move closer to finding a cure. With every step, we can do anything.

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By Komen Denver, August 11, 2009 3:35 pm

Joni Hunter with her scooter, Little Pinkie

By Joni Hunter

I started getting mammograms when I turned 40 and have had one ever year. Six years later during a routine mammogram, the radiologist came into the exam room with X-rays in hand. He wanted to know my family history regarding cancer. I had an aunt on my father’s side that died from breast cancer, my sister had anal cancer and my father died four months earlier from leukemia. He showed me the pictures and the area of concern. I had a needle biopsy a day or two later, and it was positive. Since it was the Christmas season (Christmas Eve to be exact), we decided to do a lumpectomy the first week of the new year.

Telling my mother was the hardest thing I ever had to do. It was worse than me dealing with the fact that I had breast cancer. My mom and dad had been married for 50 years, and my family was still missing him. I had the lumpectomy, and it was a few days before I was to get my stitches out when my doctor called and informed me that the margins were not clear enough and had to reschedule another surgery. After that, plus eight weeks of radiation, I was on the road to physical recovery.

The best thing about my story is that soon I will be 55 and celebrating 10 years of being a survivor. I owe it all to getting mammograms every year and early detection. My tumor was up against my rib cage and was the size of a pea. The doctors told me it would have taken 10 years for it to be found during a breast exam. I think about how my life would be now if I never got a mammogram. The thing about it is once they have a picture, they have a base line to go by and can tell if there is something unusual happening. Before it gets big.

I tell everyone I know “early detection and mammograms saved me.” I do Denver Race for the Cure every year with my sisters. It’s an awesome thing.

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By Komen Denver,

Great article and story on the book “Cup Half Full.”