Had my sister Kathy not invited me to a Milwaukee Bucks game this weekend, I might never have known how grueling her cancer treatments are.
She certainly would never have told me.
Kathy doesn’t like her cancer to inconvenience anyone else. A stage four breast cancer battler since 2016, Kathy has been astonishingly matter-of-fact about her journey.
I know she goes every three weeks for life saving treatment. Sometimes, she’ll text us from her chair, remarking on the beautiful view or a repeating a funny story she’d heard.
Friday night, only because a member of Kathy’s medical team also attended the Bucks game and came over to say hello, I learned more about the treatment itself.
“Your sister is a hero,” the woman said.
I knew that. But, I didn’t know the details of this shot.
Kathy was the first person at Columbia St. Mary’s to get this particular treatment and, because she tolerated it, others have access to it too.
Can you imagine sitting still for an injection that takes five to eight minutes to complete?
I could not.
She gets the shot in her thigh and I asked her about that.
“It’s okay because they alternate thighs every time,” she said.
The medicine is thick, like molasses, and the nurses have to work hard to push it through. Kathy has been receiving this treatment every three weeks since 2021 and no one in our family has ever heard her complain about it. Until Friday night, I had never even heard her describe it.
We’re just happy it’s keeping her alive.
I got to thinking about cancer patients and how relieved we family members are when their scans are stable. But, those stable scans don’t happen by accident or luck. They’re the result of cancer research, skilled medical professionals, and, most of all, patients who are willing to tolerate all that misery.
Sometimes, we get so busy being relieved by the scans, we forget what it takes to make them happen.
Kathy doesn’t like us to worry, so she texts the family chain immediately following her regular scans.
“Everything is stable! Root beer floats all around!”
The root beer float thing started with my husband Vince more than 10 years ago. He drove Kathy to Mayo for some consultations and the news was overwhelmingly difficult. On the way home, he suggested they take a little root beer float break.
Now, every time the scan is stable, Kathy invites us to toast with root beer floats. I have asked Vince why they couldn’t have stopped for a hot fudge sundae that day, or a nice glass of wine.
“Not my style,” he said. So, it’s a root beer float toast (or whatever sounds good).
The point is, we get to raise our glass to our sister.
I just wish she didn’t have to work so hard to earn those root beer floats.
If you’ll join me in hoisting whatever you like, let’s raise a glass to Kathy and to all cancer survivors.
We’re so glad you’re here.
