I'm Vera, and I'm 55 years old. I was first diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer in August, 2002. During a routine gynecological exam, a very deep, 2.1 cm suspicious lump was found. I had breast surgery, a second surgery to obtain clean margins, then chemo and radiation. I began chemo on September 11th exactly one year after the towers were destroyed. I had a husband, 17-year-old son and 10-year-old daughter, and I needed to live for them. Life has no regard for treatment schedules: a week after I started chemo, my father suffered a hemorrhagic stroke. He died on October 16th. I was so numb that I couldn't even allow myself to grieve - all of my focus was on surviving the ravages of Adriamycin, Cytoxan and Taxotere. 

I was declared 'cancer free' by my oncologist five years later, certainly not suspecting cancer when I developed chronic pain climbing stairs and difficulty walking. My oncologist disregarded my complaints. Nine years post-diagnosis, after seeing rheumatologists and neurologists who could find nothing wrong with me, my tumor markers skyrocketed. A PET scan in October 2011 confirmed metastasis to pelvic bones, pubic bone and spine, and a lymph node full of cancer in the chest wall. I had the lymph node surgically removed and typed to ensure it was the same estrogen and progesterone-positive cancer. I also had my ovaries removed, something I had begged for my doctors to do years back. They had refused, due to lack of evidence of any disease. 

I'm now approaching the end of year three with metastatic cancer. I've given up my career as an educator. My ability to function normally is very limited due to the significant side effects of treatment. Cognitively, I struggle to remember names. sequences, and events. It's so frustrating and demoralizing. My body aches constantly with neuropathy and joint pain. I keep trying to shift away from the pain, so I do not get good sleep nor can I stand still. Exercise and meditation does help but I have not found anything to help with my mental deficits. I am left wondering how much longer I will live and what my quality of life will be with each coming day. I help others to take my mind off of myself. In the quiet hours, when there is no distraction, only fervent prayer gets me through. We suffer in silence, and we are misunderstood. Many of us do not wear our painful deficits on the outside. We have learned that complaining and sharing our pain offers no benefit.