48. Opinions. Facts. Reality.
Someone recently asked me how my cancer got so far along without anyone noticing. At the risk of opening a can of Covid worms, I'll answer the question truthfully.
A little lesson on my cancer history: I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2012. I did the surgery, radiation, and drug therapy for five years. I had a super-de-duper genetic test done on my tumor and was told I had a 14% chance the cancer would return in that breast — a low probability and very good information to know. From 2012-2017, I went for diagnostic mammograms twice a year. This type of mammogram is more sophisticated than a typical screening, they take a lot longer, there’s a whole lot of squishing — images are taken from many angles. Every time I had one — EVERY TIME I HAD ONE — I wondered if the squishing could push some errant cancer cell out of my breast and into my body.
I’m not kidding.
I mentioned it on many occasions to Tim. Then we laughed at the absurdity.
In October 2017, I was five years out and elated when I walked the oncologist's hallway and heard the ring of a bell letting me and anyone else in earshot know that I was in remission. What a great word — what a great feeling — what a triumph.
I beat breast cancer. So. There.
I continued going for my breast screenings and annual physicals until 2020. Like millions of people, I feared getting Covid, so I hunkered down in my home, wore masks when family members came home from their brief, but necessary trips out, declined visits from friends, sprayed agents on anything that moved, donned plastic gloves and doused food deliveries with disinfectant — and while I did all that, I waited impatiently for a vaccine to be approved. Because I fell into a high-risk category, I rolled up my sleeve as soon as I could and took a single-dose J&J Covid vaccine. Then I went home, hunkered down, wore masks, and sprayed EVERYTHING because I was still fearful. I was a cancer survivor and I met four out of the five high-risk categories.
I had every right to be fearful and to stay out of circulation — and far, far away from medical facilities where Covid patients were filling waiting rooms, ERs, and intensive care units. There was NO WAY for me to have gone for my annual visit because doctors’ offices and medical laboratories were on the frontline in the battle against Covid.
I stayed as far from the frontline as humanly possible.
During that year, I stopped seeing my eighty-six-year old mother and sister who live five miles away, and when Hannah and Hadley made an infrequent trip off of Wildwood Avenue, I would double up on masks and count the days until we knew they hadn’t been ‘exposed’ to Covid. When enough time had passed and it was safe to play together again, I’d open my arms and Hadley would race into them for the hug we craved.
I wasn’t seeing people — by choice — because of fear, real fear. I was filling most of my days and nights writing, and some time reading the local newspaper online. Soon, I began seeing the names and faces of people I knew, or sort of knew, listed on the obituary page. I began reading the ‘Covid Obits’ and thought the families were brave, and determined, or pissed off just enough to let readers know their loved one died of Covid.
Without exception, I’d spend a few minutes after that sad experience opening the CDC website to get the statistics, then watched news reports to get an idea about how people were processing the events, and I’d finish each day watching Governor Charlie Baker’s press conference, and the daily White House briefings, and, and, and.
Through it all, I kept a keen eye on what was happening in Worcester County. Overall, it seemed as though things were working — until such time as hospitals started filling to capacity, and family members were no longer allowed to stay with their loved ones, and elective surgeries, and some not-so-elective treatments were postponed or canceled altogether. And then, the DCU center — the place to go in Worcester if you want to be entertained or enthralled by a performer or an awesome sports team — was turned into a makeshift hospital for the overflow of Worcester County patients — Covid patients.
To date, 913,000 Americans have died from Covid. I suck at math, but even Sheryll Bodine knows that is a lot of dead people. I could itemize the number of those who died before there was a vaccine, and the number since the rollout, and the percentage of those who died without having been vaccinated — but that isn’t what this blog is about.
Those numbers — those facts can be found elsewhere.
At the beginning of this blog, I said I was opening a can of Covid worms. I should say — emphatically — that I am not interested in anyone's opinion on this subject — I’m not even interested in my own opinion, anymore.
I educated myself on Covid, I did everything I could to protect myself and my loved ones. I tried to persuade people to dig deep into research and make decisions based on facts and figures. I am still very passionate about this shit fest because it remains a danger for all of you. But — I am more interested in what Covid has cost me, and continues to cost me, and what it will cost my loved ones.
In 2019, I had a normal alk phos — normal is 20-140 (I’m rather sure). I don't know what my alk phos was in 2020 because I didn't have pre-physical blood work — no need for blood work unless you intend on following it up with a physical examination. For already stated reasons, I planned on sitting my ass in my hermetically-sealed home instead of venturing out into Covid-World.
I made that choice.
So, if you want to blame me for where I am. Go ahead.
But before you close the blog, at least grant me the opportunity to say my piece.
I think I’ve earned it.
By the time I had blood work done, it was October 2021: on the 14th the result was 618 and on the 18th it was 645.
NOT. GOOD.
We all know what the elevated level meant for me — before I even knew I was sick, I had already lost my battle with metastatic breast cancer of the bones.
I had already lost my battle. To cancer and to Covid.
I was right to fear Covid then, and now. There were so many things to fear about this disease — the one that quickly became political — the one that caused families to break apart — the one that caused bloodshed over mask wearing — the one that brought our country to its knees, and ripped our healthcare system to shreds — the one that’s left our children to suffer the loss of parents and grandparents and siblings and teachers and friends — the one that has stripped away their chance at a normal childhood.
I’ve no doubt that this generation of children will be called The Covid Kids, or Generation 19, or some stupid shit. It doesn’t matter what they are called, what matters is that they aren’t being allowed to be children. The youth of today have become casualties of Covid 19 — they have become casualties of the choices we make. It doesn’t matter how well-intended we think they are — our children are the ones who are suffering.
A sidestep: A year or so ago, Tim took Hadley to the drive-through at McDonalds at Tatnuck Square. They donned masks and went off for a little time together. He went up over Airport Hill, grabbed her Happy Meal, then headed home via Mill Street. He'd barely stopped his car on our driveway when Hadley bolted through my front door.
"MammyGrams! MammyGrams! Guess what I just saw!"
"What?"
"Two kids were playing outside on their front lawn! They were playing catch. WITH A BALL!"
How fucking sad. How fucking pathetic. My granddaughter reacted as though she’d seen a UNICORN, not a couple of kids doing what they ought to be doing — what every kid ought to be doing: on ballfields, and playgrounds, and front yards, everywhere in America — being children.
I suspect half of the people reading this are thinking I'm going to get onto a high horse for this side or that side. I'm not getting onto anything.
I can't.
Remember, I'm dying of cancer — bone cancer. I'm not allowed to get up and walk to my kitchen for fear that one of my bones will break and that will be the end of Sheryll O’Brien.
My Reality
The other day, I gathered the courage to look at the images from my nuclear medicine bone scan. I mentioned, in a previous blog, that I don’t do online medical research. It freaks me out, and besides, I don’t understand half of what I read. I knew I had access to my bone scan and other test results, but I’d resisted the urge to take a peek. For some unknown reason, I threw caution to the wind and accessed my medical tests and scans.
Heads Up — My Chart, at UMass Hospital is a portal to Hell
I opened the portal and went to the titled section: Nuclear Medicine Bone Scan and clicked my mouse on the pretty blue arrow.
I wish I hadn't looked. I wish I could get the images out of my head.
I cannot.
With complete honesty, and without hyperbole, I am filled with cancer from my skull to my knees. The devastation of what this disease has done to me is indicated by black marks and swaths across my entire skeleton.
My skeleton should be white. My skeleton is not.
I have two black sections on my skull. My entire spinal column, from the base of my head to where my back meets my butt is black. My rib cage has black markings reminiscent of those on a tiger’s back. My pelvis and hips are black front and back. My femurs have black sections here and there and holes that run from the front through to the back. My knees look like two huge black marbles.
One physician told me it would be impossible not to lose sleep after looking at my scan. One physician told me I might survive six months if it was just the cancer, but a fracture was my most imminent concern. One physician mentioned something called a spinal collapse.
The other day, I told Nurse M I looked at my bone scan. She stopped emptying her backpack of the tools of her trade and stared at my face.
The air was sucked from the room. And time seemed to stand still.
My eyes filled with tears. “How on God’s green earth am I still alive — how did I not know I was sick — how am I still alive?”
She gave her head a tiny shake, leaned her elbows on her thighs and moved into my space — even though we were a few feet apart. Her body language sent the signal that she was all-in with me — on the conversation we were about to have — and the pain I was experiencing. She gave her hands a tiny clap, “Honestly, Sheryll, it’s because you are who you are. You’re a fighter. You’ve decided you are going to do whatever it takes to live the remainder of your life — your way — and for as long as you can.”
I nodded, had a moment’s cry, shook it off, and readied myself for the battle I won’t win — the battle I’ve already lost — the battle I’m still going to fight.
When the nights are long and lonely, I wonder how I will die. I used to fear climbing onto my death bed — but given the option of a slow decline on morphine OR a sudden fracture or spine collapse — I'd like the decline, please.
Truth be told, there are other things I would like. Correction, there are other things I need and I may not get to have because of the wretched curse of Covid.
My preference — AND GODDAMIT I SHOULD HAVE MY PREFERENCE — is to pass away at a hospice facility. I'd like to stay in my home until such time as I need round the clock care. I don't want my husband or my daughters doing anything for me other than holding my hands and telling me they love me.
But because of the rise of Covid again, I may find myself without a hospice bed — and if I am lucky to find a bed, Covid restrictions may make it so that Tim, and Hannah, and Jessica, and my eighty-six-year old mother, and Marjorie, and Don, and Donna, and my religious guide, and my, and my, and my — won't be able to visit — let alone be with me when I die.
And when I do die, I may need to wait a week or more for cremation availability. I know I will be dead, but I will be alone for a week or more, and my family will have to wait to say goodbye, and I may not find the peace I seek — the peace I am entitled to.
So again, I don't give a damn about anyone's opinion about the can of worms I’ve opened. I do care that I am absolutely a casualty of Covid and the politics and passion that has run amuck. I do care that I, and millions of others just like me, won’t be counted as victims of Covid — even though we most certainly are.
So, at the end of the day.
If you've had a shot or if you have not — if you wear a mask or if you do not — if you object to my writing this blog or you do not — none of it matters to me, anymore.
I am going to be dead soon.
Maybe I would have had a chance to beat cancer if I learned about it in 2020 — none of us will ever know the answer to that.