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Two Conversations

October 2021 Vol 7 No 5
Mary Trouba, PhD
Austin, Texas

More than a year ago, a woman sporting a cap sat in the chair across from me in the infusion room. Once the oncology nurse finished hooking up the pre-medications for my maintenance chemotherapy, this woman, whom I will call Cheryl, struck up an animated conversation with me.

Cheryl’s Story

Cheryl quickly revealed the type of cancer for which she was being treated, diagnosed just 1 month before her wedding. Her story was colorful, and she told it with gusto. She shared that her hair fell out the day before her wedding; however, she had obtained a wig in preparation, just in case.

I was impressed by how on top of things she seemed to be. I recall how I considered getting a wig, even if only to wear for the fun of it here and there, when I went through my initial chemotherapy. But I didn’t get around to it, immersed as I was in the physical, practical, and psychological aspects of starting treatment and the many ways it shook up my life.

In rapid succession, Cheryl showed me photos of her recent wedding, spoke with pride about her new stepchildren, and told me about her job. She said that she would receive 6 treatments, and then she would be “done.” Her goal was to get back to her 10- to 30-mile bike rides. I told her that that was a great goal indeed.

I remember being struck by the finite way in which Cheryl spoke about her cancer treatment, conjuring up the image of cancer being easily contained, not something with which one’s body may be dealing continuously at a cellular level. To me, this was a clue that Cheryl was not part of what I will call the “metastatic club.”

Sometimes, these types of disclosures feel almost manic to me, as if the other person is holding the anxiety at bay. At other times, they are simply delivered as a matter of fact, and I feel a tad envious of the sense of safety and innocence they convey.

Contagious Chattiness

This afternoon in the infusion room, however, a woman that I had noticed on several occasions entered and sat in the chair next to me. Given Cheryl’s chattiness, the space was now one in which the conversational wheels had been greased. In counterpoint to the napping, reading, and listening to music that usually characterize the space, people were eavesdropping on each other’s conversations and freely jumping into them.

On that afternoon, I took the step of telling the woman in the chair next to me that I had noticed her before, and that I suspected we might have been on similar treatments. She was interested and listened carefully. She began by asking me how I decided which side to put my port on, the device through which the chemo was delivered. The truth is that it really hadn’t been much of a decision.

The “problem area,” as my surgeon had put it, was on the right side, so it made sense for the port to be implanted on the left. Later, after I had had a mastectomy, I was instructed by a kind radiology technician to keep everything on the left—blood draws and IV insertions for the contrast administered during CT scans.

Comparing Notes

Visiting Ireland.

The woman and I compared notes on our treatments. She had long gray-blonde hair, the mark of not receiving certain types of chemotherapy associated with hair loss. She came in for injections. I knew those injections. They complement a particular targeted therapy. She received a treatment to maintain and strengthen her bones, like I have received.

Words like kinase inhibitors, monocytes, and lymphocytes, the specific number and locations of her metastases, and the number of IUs of vitamin D supplementation she had received rolled off of her tongue.

I matter-of-factly spoke of the sequence of drugs I have received as part of my treatment, the number of months I was receiving the targeted therapy, and the clinical trial that links vitamin D with longevity in patients with breast cancer.

Someone in the Same Boat

Within the space of a few minutes, I had given her a quicker, more compact verbal download of the sequence of my treatment history than I had ever given anyone. I introduced myself, and we exchanged names. Rising to leave, I learned that we both had the same oncologist, and the same surgeon for our mastectomies.

I was impressed with how much the woman seemed to know, with how much we both knew, and with how much specific information we had exchanged in an easy, open way within the span of a 15- to 20-minute chat.

I liked this woman, her calm demeanor, her intelligent, precise way of relaying information. I had no idea if she had children, a husband, a job, a dog, or a cat. Perhaps this would come in time. I was happy to have someone in my same boat, so to speak, facing metastatic breast cancer.

After being in treatment for a few years, I have not yet met anyone, to my knowledge, with the same type of breast cancer I have (inflammatory breast cancer, which accounts for 1% to 5% of all breast cancers in the United States), and so I have found myself identifying with those facing the same stage of breast cancer, namely, metastatic.

Kindred Spirit

Reflecting on that afternoon, I was struck by the difference between these 2 conversations. I was grateful to Cheryl for creating a more open, talkative environment than usual on that particular day.

Synchronistically, it was a day on which I had an opportunity to connect in a meaningful way with someone who is on a similar treatment path as my own. It is true that we humans are all connected, but at times it is especially nurturing and satisfying to connect with someone walking a similar path. That day in the infusion room, I found a kindred spirit.

In Memoriam

Mary Trouba: "A Life Well-Lived"

Last December, CONQUER magazine published the first story by Mary, titled “My Eccentric Companion” (available at https://conquer-magazine.com/issues/2020/vol-6-no-6-december-2020/1434-my-eccentric-companion). Shortly after, Mary submitted this second article for publication, when we encouraged her to send us more articles, considering her superb writing talent, as clearly evidenced here.

Sadly, on June 6, 2021, Mary died of metastatic breast cancer. Her sister Julie explained that before her death, Mary had requested her family members to come together for “A Celebration of Her Life Gathering,” to share “upbeat” and “not too boring” stories and laughs. This was echoed in Mary’s first story we published, where she wrote, “In the event of my passing, I would want folks to frame it in a more upbeat, or at least relatively matter-of-fact fashion.”

Mary’s discussion of her passing in that article may be as good as any obituary could be. She wrote, “Someone may remark on my hearty laugh, my unique perspective, my love of music and wordplay, my penchant for inventing silly songs, or my fondness for travel.” She accepted how unique she was; she also never let us know how dire her prognosis was, not even in our last communication in May 2021, a few weeks before her passing. She was able to issue her self-published book, Reflections on Living with Metastatic Breast Cancer, on May 15, 2021.

The CONQUER magazine community has lost another dear and special friend. This second article is a celebration of “a life well-lived,” as she wrote in the first article.

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