I tried to make light of my breast cancer, but I wonder how light I would be if it were a higher stage.  Probably not as brave and light-hearted if I were having chemo with a stage 3 or 4, or if it had been in my lymph nodes.

I’m a lucky and grateful woman, even if you consider the fact that it was cancer for the second time.  I had uterine cancer almost ten years ago – also a stage 1, caught early and no treatment required of any type.  My fellow patients in Dr. E’s waiting room poo-pooed me and almost laughed me out of there.  They had all had some sort of treatment after their surgeries and could not believe that I needed nothing.  I just shrugged embarrassedly and apologetically.

Breast cancer is another animal, entirely.  A whole new world opens up to you.  Unlike uterine cancer, there is a plethora of information about breast cancer.  It’s not a friendly cancer at all.

I considered all types of treatments and finally decided to do the lumpectomy, then the radiation trip, followed by a hormone blocking pill.

I really wanted to go natural – supplements, acupuncture, prayer, meditation, DIET, but then I chickened out.  It scared me to have cancer.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m doing the other stuff, too, but just for insurance, I kicked in the chemical or modern western medical way.

I even considered cannabis, which I have tried and will most likely continue with, even though one or two doctors told me there are no studies proving its efficacy.  There are hundreds of personal stories, however, in which patients claim to be cured or living well.

I ordered some of Rick S ‘s cannabis.  It came in some skinny tubes along with some sample capsules.  You must fill your own tubes with the very tiniest; i.e., pin-point of doses.  The first one I took that I had filled on my own knocked me for a loop.  Just takes practice, I guess.

The cancer has brought me many great experiences, and one of these was riding what I like to call Riding The Cancer Bus.

When you are insured with Kaiser Permanente, all of the radiation treatments for the local communities – and some from a little distance – are done at the Hollywood-Sunset facility in Los Angeles.  Don’t let the name fool you.  There is no Hollywood/Sunset Boulevard glamour involved.  It’s a gray, concrete fortress, and they stuck us radiation recipients in the basement.

When it’s your turn, your name appears on an electronic board next to the room number where you go for your treatment with the big green monster – and many young, mostly male, technicians.  It was humiliating at first, to have your breast just hanging out on display for all to see, but then it got to be funny to me, and I was able to crack many jokes about it – humor is my survival mode.

On the last day of treatment I told the young tech that he would no longer have my breast to kick around, to which he replied, “Oh, is that what we’re treating”?

Every morning, for three weeks, I would drive to the Panorama City Kaiser Hospital to catch the cancer bus to downtown LA for my treatment.  Speaking of “no glamour,” Panorama City is one of the uglier cities in The Valley of San Fernando.  But listen to this, God.  I’m so grateful there was a bus I could catch there.

The very first day I stepped on the bus, everyone greeted me with enthusiasm.  “Here’s the Newbie,” they all said.  We introduced ourselves, and I had an immediate rapport with my fellow bus riders/cancer patients.

We were all in various stages of treatment.  Some had already had chemo and others were just having radiation.

We were all women riding the bus, with the exception of the husband of one of the women, who accompanied her every single time. She was most likely our oldest passenger and had had a serious cancer before this breast cancer. Our bus driver, Carlos, was male, also.  Very efficient, always taking off on time, always there to pick us up in front of both hospitals on time.

One of my favorite fellow riders was Liz.  She had had a breast reduction and frequently alluded to the size of her previous breasts by holding her hands out in front at a great distance from her current breasts.  I never understood when the cancer came in – before or after her reduction. I think it was kind of a “as long as we’re here removing the tumor, let’s make them a bit smaller.”

Judy reminded me of my mother-in-law — physically.  She was originally a mid-westerner, and she talked more than anybody else and told many stories of her family.  The stories flowed easily, and none of us minded that she dominated.

Each day, she would take the arm of the woman who was accompanied by her husband, walk her in and tell the husband to “go take a walk and get some coffee,” which he did.  It was a nice break for him.  He was a sweetheart.

Later, I didn’t like Judy quite as much.  Turns out she was a bit of a racist, but we don’t need to go into that here.  She was so considerate in many other ways and clueless as to how her remarks shocked me.  She didn’t notice my mouth hanging open and the startled look in my eyes.

Maria spoke only Spanish.  She’d had chemo and always wore a scarf.  The women that had chemo were a little gray looking, but Maria did improve each day, and when we did our best to talk to her, she opened up.  She seemed undaunted with her situation, which I greatly appreciated because I didn’t feel so sorry for myself.  There she was – riding a bus, unaccompanied, speaking so little English, with all these people speaking so little Spanish.

We were all invited to her granddaughter’s Quincinera.  Maria told me she had numerous physical problems – high cholesterol, high blood pressure, a heart condition, etc.  Then she just gestured with her hand, as if she were brushing it all off with a laugh.

Learned a lot from her.

There was a particular tradition with the bus riders.  On your last day, you brought a small gift for everyone.

I received cupcakes, candy, soap, notepaper and the most fantastic little Bundt cake, which must have been made by the angels.

I learned a lot about people and how they handled themselves with such grace.

But, also importantly, I learned about those delicious little Bundt cakes.

Guess what gift I gave my fellow riders on my last day riding The Cancer Bus?  Of course I got one for myself, too.

The End.