Dr. Killcells, a retired military doctor who wears Hawaiian shirts and scrubby grey beard, also inundated me with facts and statistics, but this time I'd done some homework and was better prepared to understand and ask some questions. Dr. Killcells said chemotherapy would give me so many percentage points more chance of not having a recurrence. To my way of thinking, 33% chance of recurrence, sans chemo, is the same as 67% chance of NO recurrence. Not bad odds. Then when they factored in some other data, my chance of no recurrence (with chemo) rose to about 80 some-odd percent. Even better odds. When I asked what he'd advise his wife to do, he told me that his wife was also an oncologist and that they'd discussed my case; it was right on some imaginary line, blah, blah, blah. He never did answer my question. What he did say was, "Think about it and let me know your decision."  Gee, thanks, specialist doctor.

So, I'm thinking and thinking and thinking some more. I'm about to turn 63 years old. At best, I can probably hope for maybe, optimistically, 20 to 25 more years of life. Would aggressively treating my cancer help insure that I'd reach that ripe old age? Would not treating it at all shorten that period of time or would I live just as long?  Would I live that long without treatment, but suffer agonizing pain for some period of the time? How much would my children and loved ones suffer if I did nothing and they had to watch me deteriorate and suffer?

A few days later I got a phone call from Nurse Sweethang at a radiation oncologist's office. She was very empathetic, sent me some literature, asked me how I was doing and offered to make me an appointment with Dr. Burnsaboob, radiation oncologist. It never occurred to me to wonder how she got my name and phone number.

Turns out that Dr. Burnsaboob's office was right next door to Dr. Killcells'. Hmmm, convenient. His walls were impressively covered with certificates and diplomas from hospitals and schools all over the country. He's bouncy, loud, a former med school instructor, perpetually optimistic, speaks with a Texas twang, and is devoted to radiation therapy. He tells me, "Y'all gettin' chemotherapy is like shootin' a gnat with an assault rifle." Wow! That got my attention. Once again, I was told to think about it and decide what I wanted to do.

Now, this ain't like having a broken leg where you go to the hospital and the experts take over. They don't ask you if you want an x-ray or if you want a cast. They do what their experience has taught them will bring about the best result for your broken leg. Most of the time, that broken leg will mend and be well. Cancer doctors aren't that sure of themselves. They don't have the success rate of a hospital orthopedist. They will tell you about partial mastectomies, radical mastectomies, and lumpectomies. They'll tell you what percentage of women with your kind of cancer survived with and without chemo and with and without radiation and then ask you what your thoughts are. My thoughts were, "I want this little bastard gone from my body forever and ever, amen."

But wait, hadn't Dr. Cutter gotten it all and said it hadn't spread into my lymph nodes? If that was the case, why was I entertaining the idea of repeatedly poisoning every cell in my body and then nuking the upper right quadrant of my torso 36 times? Daughter and I go back to Dr. Killcells with that very question. He talks to us for quite some time and is very patient and kind. I was about 98% convinced that I would forego chemotherapy and just have radiation. Dr. Killcells goes over my pathology report with me, brings out some computer-generated statistics geared specifically to my case, and explains that my particular type of cancer is very aggressive (even though it hadn't yet shown any signs of spreading), was hormone receptor negative, and reiterated the statistics that gave me a higher chance of non-recurrence. Looking at my beautiful, smiling 5-month-old grandson sitting in my daughter's lap, I changed my mind again and agreed to the chemotherapy. I really wanted to give myself every possible chance of seeing my new grandbabies grow up.

A week later, I got my first chemo treatment. Nurse Ratchett (more about her later) explained that it would be a three-hour infusion of three different drugs, every three weeks for four sessions. She outlined the possible side effects -- nausea, loss of hair, compromised immune system, and various other gruesome prospects. I find her professional and courteous but not warm and caring like every other cancer care provider has been so far.

In the meantime, my husband, who has worked out of state for about five years, is hospitalized out West with congestive heart failure. He catches the first plane to Texas when he gets out of the hospital and arrives here around midnight, very sick. I have him in the ER by 4:00 a.m., where he's admitted to CCU and stays for eight days. He gets a defibrillator and is warned about the complications of heart disease with his diabetes and high blood pressure. He comes home, unable to drive and needing extra care to be provided by -- guess who? So much for avoiding stress and taking it easy so my body can fight my cancer. Eventually, tests reveal that he also has chronic kidney failure.

He recovers enough to start going with me to my medical appointments (I miss my daughter's company) but since he arrived late on the scene, he's kind of lost as to what's going on and why. I find it hard to depend on him, confide in him or look to him for support because he hasn't been here in years and I've had to handle everything by myself; including raising the granddaughter, heart surgery, neck surgery, financial hardships, losing my home, moving, and whole raft of events that he wasn't here to help me with. There is resentment on my part because I believe he chose to be gone rather than stay around, help me handle our life, and make the sacrifices necessary to find work here. It was easier for him to stay disconnected and uninvolved. Now he expects to return to the fold as if he'd never been gone.

When it's time for my second chemo treatment, I have a cold-turned-into-bronchitis with cough, fever, headache and runny nose. Dr. Killcells isn't in that day so Nurse Ratchet makes an executive decision to do my treatment anyway. I'm sick for five weeks, it turns into pneumonia requring three visits to Dr. Primary, a chest x-ray, and two rounds of antibiotics. One treatment, even with the Neulasta shot, had weakened my immune system that much. During that period, it came time for my third chemo treatment. Dr. Killcells examined me, postponed the treatment and wrote another prescription for an antibiotic. I intuited that he wasn't happy with Nurse Ratchett for giving me a treatment when I was obviously sick. She probably wasn't happy at being chastised and thereafter, wasn't real happy with me.

Treatments resume. I'm hooked to an IV for three hours each time, after first having blood drawn. The chairs recline and I'm offered pillows and blankets. I was dehydrated; my veins didn't cooperate with Nurse Ratchett. Nurse Imamomtoo came to the rescue and found a usable vein on the underside of my arm. Eventually, my hair began to fall out; not in clumps but in strands. It was in the bottom of the shower, in the sink, in the hairbrush, on the car seat. I tried a Donald Trump comb-forward. Finally, I took out the electric clipper and shaved as best I could. My oldest daughter came over one night and completed the job. I bought a totally inappropriate wig and wore it one time. I had several bandanas and scarves but they weren't exactly what I needed.

Nurse Sweetness called again and told me about a program called "Look Good, Feel Better" for cancer patients. It was a session where a volunteer told cancer patients how to apply makeup during treatment and -- best of all -- we got to go home with a bag full of new cosmetics. She also told me that I could go to the American Cancer Society office and get two free wigs. I agreed to the makeup session and then drove the 40 miles to the ACS office for my wigs. One of them was quite nice and I was often told that no one would guess I was wearing a wig. I had to take the second one to be styled, and it never looked quite as good. The makeup session wasn't very educational for me - I've been a makeup consultant and already knew the tricks of the trade. They hadn't made me beautiful yet, but a girl can hope. I appreciated the free makeup, though.