Should We Rename DCIS?

Ductal carcinoma in situ was all over the news this week, after the Journal of the American Medical Association published “Overdiagnosis and Overtreatment in Cancer, An Opportunity for Improvement.” This is a good, and necessary, conversation. DCIS was front and center as one of the prime candidates for overtreatment, and the panel proposed renaming it Indolent Lesions of Epithelial Origin (or its evocative acronym, IDLE), to lessen fear and potential overtreatment.

I can speak with some authority on the subject, as I was diagnosed and treated for DCIS five years ago. After considerable discussion and two attempts at breast-conserving surgery that failed to get the desired clean margins, the treatment plan my doctors and I landed on was a (single) mastectomy with auxiliary lymph node removal to make sure some cells hadn’t escaped. Luckily, they had not, although the mastectomy uncovered still more cells lurking beyond what the earlier surgeries captured.

I won’t repeat what others have said, but here’s my take on it. You can call it whatever you want. Call it DCIS or precancer. Call it indolent or IDLE. Call it a cab, for all I care. But if I were diagnosed today, with the same circumstances, I’m willing to bet my doctors would make the same recommendation and I would make the same choice. My oncologist told me the odds of my DCIS becoming invasive were 50/50, and I didn’t like those odds. He also told me he would support me if I chose radiation instead. “Wait and see” was not an option then, and I don’t think it would be now given my specific situation.

The other point I want to make is related to that. My book, From Zero to Mastectomy, was reviewed last week on the Breast Cancer Consortium website. While I appreciate the thoughtful treatment Bonnie Spanier gave it and her overall positive review, I want to respond to one area. She said my trajectory took me farther away from the full spectrum of the disease as a precancer, and while she conceded that was understandable at the time, she didn’t feel I gave enough attention to the complexities of DCIS.

The book was not an academic exercise for me. I did not set out to write The Emperor of All Precancers. I felt, then and now, that the best way I could help other women was by sharing my experience.

Here are some links to recent and not-so-recent stories about DCIS.

If you read only one thing regarding the current debate, read “What’s In A Name?” posted on the #BCSM Community website. This piece, by Jody Schoger and Drs. Deanna Attai and Michael Cowher, is the best summary of the issue I’ve read.

Bloomberg News ran a well-balanced story on handling this confusing diagnosis, and I was one of the women interviewed.

CURE Today magazine ran the piece “Redefining the Word Cancer,” in which Debu Tripathy wisely said, “one cannot just declare a new system into existence.”  (Especially a belief system: See: Mammograms, Annual.)

The same point was raised in the New York Times “Well” blog, in its excellent “Scientists Seek to Rein in Diagnoses of Cancer.” My favorite part of this piece was when Memorial Sloan-Kettering’s Dr. Larry Norton said changing the terminology does not solve the problem of doctors not being able to tell patients which cancers will remain indolent and which will go on to kill them.

The best path we have remains the one we’ve always had: individual consultations between doctor and patient, based on individual physical characteristics and risk factors. I would also add levels of risk tolerance. I discussed it a bit in my Bloomberg News interview, and I’ve also written about women who opt for bilateral mastectomies after being diagnosed with DCIS. As the discussion about this poorly understood condition heats up again and the public opinion pendulum swings in favor of watching and waiting, let’s not stand in judgment of their choice.



I’m starting my first day of residency for an MFA in poetry writing through the University of Nebraska-Omaha, and it’s all breast cancer’s fault.   

I guess I should explain. I started pursuing my undergraduate degree in journalism 31 years ago and eventually got a degree from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. During that time, I took a couple of poetry writing classes for fun. I had loved reading and writing poetry since I was a little kid. In college, I got a handful of things published and enjoyed it. One of my instructors said I should be pushing myself and going to graduate school.

But I went from coasting to drifting away from poetry completely. I never wrote it and barely read it. But when I was diagnosed with DCIS in 2008, poetry started speaking to me again. First I started reading it again, then I stared writing it. Now, as before, I’ve gotten a handful of things published or accepted for publication over the coming months. The difference now is I do want to push myself. I want to get better at my craft.

I can’t say I might not have arrived at this point without breast cancer, but I honestly doubt it. No matter how early stage it is when it shows up, cancer is a wake-up call. It makes you wonder what it is you plan to do with this life you’re so lucky to have.

Some of us in the breast cancer blogging community seem to have arrived at a crossroads. Katie is tired of fighting and of losing friends, and wondering just how much you can say about breast cancer. Marie is taking a medical break. I’m going to have to devote time to poetry, likely at the expense of my breast cancer social media activity and blogging (unless I can figure out how to give up sleeping).

It might feel like you’re giving up if you don’t continue to fight for the friends you’ve lost, and we’ve all lost too many. But I also feel very strongly that if we don’t live the life that matters to us, we’re doing them an even bigger disservice. We owe it to them to make every minute count.

I don’t plan to walk away from breast cancer advocacy completely. The community I’ve found online means too much to me. I may not be blogging as often and instead of focusing on breast cancer, I may want to share what I’ve learned in case anyone wants to try their hand at writing as therapy. My friend Pam was a big journaler and helped other women with cancer learn how to journal. Maybe the best thing I can do for her memory is to do the same with poetry.

Reverting to Form

I’m a fraud. Well, not in the sense of identity theft or anything like that. But for the past several months I’ve been worried that something’s wrong with me and I haven’t shared it with this wonderful online community I’ve found. Some of my online buddies have shared their fears of an upcoming oncology visit or blood test, and I’ve thought of reaching out the same way, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

I didn’t reach out to many people offline either. My wonderful surgeon asked how I was when I popped in to invite him to a wine event fundraiser three months ago. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s when a doctor asks how you’re doing, it isn’t just small talk. He or she really wants to know. But online and off, I kept my fears largely to myself.

What happened was my platelets were heading in the wrong direction in September and December, and as much as my oncologist and family doctor told me not to worry, I couldn’t completely banish it from my head. I have often said that telling us how we should feel about our diagnosis is like telling us we should be six feet tall or have brown eyes. The same thing can apply to worrying. Some of us are just wired that way, although there are things we can do to ease it.

I did my best to stay offline and not let my cyberchondriac tendencies get the best of me, but I didn’t like it one bit that my oncologist bumped me up from my regular six-month checkup to four months. I didn’t like it that I wasn’t acing my blood work, and I hated it that there was nothing I could do about it.

Somewhere in the middle of all this stewing, I realized I was handling this the same way I handled my DCIS diagnosis four years ago. I told very few people while my head was churning and I was trying to figure out what to do.

I wasn’t on social media then, but now I realize it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. As open as I like to think I am, I’m still private in a lot of ways. I still have trouble admitting when I’m scared. I’m more comfortable talking about certain things when they’re in the rear-view mirror. I say supportive things to others dealing with their particular brand of medical misery, and I mean them, but I have one hell of a time taking my own advice.

I’m not sure what point I’m even trying to make with this, other than to let you know that the way we act online isn’t so different from the way we act offline. And don’t be surprised if you also find yourself reverting to form when faced with another challenge, or as in my case, a what-if scenario.

There’s nothing wrong with me, by the way. My platelets are back to normal. I’m back to checkups every six months. I’ll have to find something else to worry about for now.

Do Patient Empowerment & Squeamishness Mix?

This post originally ran a year ago. I dusted it off because I was looking up medical terms online last night and encountered some photos that brought the old squeamishness back. -Jackie

 Patient empowerment is all the rage lately. While I distrust the way the “e” word sometimes verges on ideology, I’m all for learning what’s happening when we get that front row seat to medicine thanks to cancer or another big diagnosis.

But how best to learn if you tend to be medically squeamish? My previous patient experience was limited to an annual visit, with a handful of garden-variety illnesses and the inevitable screening tests required once you hit your 40s and 50s. I’ve never had a problem with those tests, or with needles, but once I learned my breasts were going to be the focus of a cancer adventure I felt a bit queasy.

The thing is, I can’t even stand nipple rings. Back when my husband Bruce and I used to take his Harley to the big bike rally in Sturgis, S.D., I averted my eyes a lot. I found myself doing the same thing now as I loaded up on breast cancer books. How do those DCIS cells act? Sure. An illustration of a nipple floating off into space during a mastectomy? Not so much.

I wanted to know what to expect without getting too much detail, if that makes any sense. So while I learned enough to know I wanted implants instead of tissue replacement surgery for reconstruction, I didn’t read about surgery details, and I couldn’t look at before and after reconstruction photos available online.

I had gone through the mastectomy and first-stage reconstruction before I became curious about things like how my surgeon was able to balance tissue removal and skin preservation during the mastectomy, or how my plastic surgeon was able to recreate a nipple.

Believe it or not, I actually watched him do it, since it only required local anesthetic. If you had asked me five years ago if I wanted to watch myself getting a nipple built, I probably would have yakked on your shoes. But this was my fifth surgery in nine months, so I had gotten used to it. And I’m really glad I watched because it was fascinating.

But that’s me, and it happened over time. You may want every last detail, or you may prefer letting the experience wash over you. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I would recommend learning enough to be able to make an informed treatment choice, and giving yourself enough time to make that choice.  Whether you ever learn what they do with those scalpels or watch them do it is totally up to you.

For the record, nipple rings still gross me out.

3 Words to Banish: Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

2011 was full of news on the breast cancer front. One item that resonated with me was discussion of a new gene test that could pinpoint which women would be most likely to benefit from radiation for their ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), meaning they could also pinpoint who would benefit from a wait and see approach. By definition, DCIS is confined to the milk ducts. The question is will it mind its own business and stay there, or will it escape and start to spread?

DCIS is so new on the scene that it’s not well understood yet, and doctors would rather see their patients be safe than sorry when it comes to treatment. I went the safe route when I opted for a mastectomy over radiation (trust me, it wasn’t an easy choice, at least for me). So the obvious question is, what if I could have been spared either one? What if mine had been slower moving?

I’ll spare you the details of my decision-making process (they’re in my book, ahem) but I didn’t believe my DCIS was going to stay put, then or now. I realize there’s such a thing as cognitive dissonance (what most of us call sour grapes) but I don’t think that’s the case.

And besides, that’s not the point. Whether my belief system can handle this new information or not, we’re going to see a lot of this with breast cancer or any cancer. We also learned recently that perhaps they don’t need to remove so many lymph nodes to get a good feel for whether cancer has spread. I’m sure women with lymphedema are less than delighted by that news. Such is life. Such is medical progress. Imagine how we’d all feel if we had been operated on before they discovered anesthesia.

The point I’m trying to make is that cancer is no place for “Coulda, woulda, shoulda.” We do the best we can with the information we have at the time. Crystal balls are not retroactive.

Thinking about this also got me thinking about the “three words” concept for the start of the new year. A lot of people, including me, blogged about three words to focus on instead of making resolutions. I’d like to suggest that we also consider three words to banish from our thinking in 2012 and these three are at the top of my list. Not just for how I handled my cancer, but how I live my life.

Cancer can make you wonder what you want to do with this life you’re so lucky to have. Getting older does the same thing. 40 is called the old age of youth and 50 the youth of old age. I crossed over into the youth of old age just over six years ago. I do not intend to get to the end of my life thinking “Coulda, woulda, shoulda.” And I hope you don’t either.

Breast Cancer Is Not Just About You

In honor of last night’s Twitter #bcsm chat, which focused on how cancer affects caregivers/family members, I’m rerunning a post I originally ran last year. If you’re on Twitter and haven’t checked out this chat, I encourage you to do so. It’s on Monday nights at 9 p.m. Eastern time.-Jackie)

Deciding what to do when you’re diagnosed with breast cancer is one of the loneliest decisions you’ll ever make. Your doctors will give you  their best counsel, but it’s ultimately up to you.

Although you’re the star of this horror show, if you have a family, breast cancer affects all of you. Both my husband Bruce and I felt hounded by pink ribbons in the early days of my diagnosis. We decided to escape by watching the John Adams miniseries on HBO and wouldn’t you know it, his daughter had breast cancer. It was fine until they got to the 18th century mastectomy minus anesthetic. Bruce yelled at me to leave the room. When I came back, I said, How was it?” and he said, “I don’t know, my eyes were closed.”  

Bruce was more scared for me than I was for myself, although he didn’t share his fears with me until I became calmer and stronger. At one point he asked me if I would consider the double mastectomy as prevention, and asked me to think about it. I waited for about 30 seconds and said, “I’ve thought about it. No.” He told me he didn’t want me to die and I told him I wasn’t going to die and preferred dealing with one breast at a time. But first and foremost, he told me he would stand by my decision, and he’s been true to his word. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner to accompany me on the cancer roller coaster. 

Bruce was amazing in too many ways to recount here, but I’d like to share what a great source of humor he was throughout this adventure. (Yes, cancer does lend itself to humorous moments and I would urge you to take advantage of them when you can. Sometimes that’s the only power you have over a situation that sucks.)

When we were waiting for our first consultation with the doctor who would become my oncologist, I said, “Well, at least nothing can surprise me now.” (We had been assuming for two months that I would undergo radiation and had just had a different oncologist recommend a mastectomy.) Bruce leaned over, lowered his voice and said, “I’m sorry–we’re going to have to cut off your head.”

One of my favorite stories about family decision making was in the October 2009 Omaha World-Herald Healthwise supplement. (I can’t link to it for you because it’s not archived online.) The woman’s family voted on a white board posted in the kitchen with headings “Save the Boob” and “Lose the Boob.” (In case you’re curious, they voted to lose the boob.) That’s a family I wouldn’t mind being a part of.

Your turn–how did your family members handle it? How did they prop you up or make you laugh?

Finding Your Stillness

When you’re first diagnosed with breast cancer,  your mind starts spinning like a caffeinated hamster on a wheel. When I was trying to decide between a mastectomy and radiation for my ductal carcinoma in situ, there were times I wished I could unscrew my head, shake out its roiling contents, and screw it back on.

If I could give only one piece of advice to people trying to figure out what to do, it would be this: Find a way to your stillness so you can make the decision that’s right for you. Not me or 20 other people–you. And just like deciding on a course of treatment, only you know the best path to that still place.

For me, music really helped calm that constant internal buzzing. For you, the answer may lie in meditation or prayer. Other than weddings and funerals, I haven’t set foot in a church for more than 30 years, but I did occasionally pray that I would make the right decision. I also prayed for calm.

Doing things with friends also helped keep the noise at bay, although I would caution you against too much busyness. I cancelled a family vacation while trying to figure out a course of action, because it just felt right in my gut. I needed that time for reflection.

My goal was to reach a place where I wouldn’t be second-guessing myself later, and I never have going on three years out. Whatever it takes for you to reach that place, just do it. It’s not fun to be alone with the contents of your head, but you will need to find that place of stillness. It’s the only way your inner voice, or intuition or whatever you call it, can make itself heard.

A corollary to the internal commotion is feeling like you have to make a decision right now. Trust me, you don’t. With DCIS or early-stage cancer, you’re not putting your life at risk by giving yourself time to think.

Thanks to a mastectomy I’m essentially cured, although I have a standing date with my oncologist every six months and I’m taking daily Tamoxifen to prevent cancer from showing up in my other breast. But the noise in my head and time pressure are back, for reasons completely unrelated to my health. More on that next time.