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Something I’ve dreaded has happened to me at last—lymphedema, that swelled-up hand and arm that can happen on the surgery side any time after someone’s had lymph nodes removed from under her arm. My doctors pretty much dismissed my lymphedema concerns two and a half years ago, when I had my breast cancer surgery and radiation therapies. But, large studies cited by www.cancer.gov, the Web site of the National Cancer Institute, have shown that at least a quarter of breast cancer survivors eventually experience some form of arm edema.
My physical therapist said today that she treats breast cancer survivors with arms five times normal size. My flare-up is mild in comparison. I had only four lymph nodes removed, so I am less apt to suffer an extreme attack. As I tend to do when something bad happens, I’m trying to figure out why. What did I do to cause all this pain in my hands? Did it start when I vacuumed and scrubbed ten years of dust and debris out of my conversion van? (Men, I discovered, call this “detailing”.) Was it clutching my hot pink three-pound weights while bouncing on my mini-trampoline? Maybe it began after the hours and days of computer “mousing around” required for the layouts of my next children’s book.
Whatever—about three weeks ago, I got tendonitis in both hands, a condition I’ve fought for years. I normally treat it with ice, ibuprofen, rest, and a pair of worn, black leather bowling braces that make me look more vixen than victim. This time, however, the tight wristband that cured my left hand caused edema in my right.
Welcome to yet another medical facility. Today I made my second visit to physical therapy, a large, brightly lit, friendly place bristling with complicated workout equipment. I was given a light arm and hand massage, a few sheets of photocopied exercises, and a whopping bill. I got off easy—apparently, breast cancer lymphedema folks at my facility are often assigned nine double sessions of one and a half hours which include extensive massage, exercise, and a special compression glove and sleeve.
I’ve escaped most of that. So far. I was told that my lymphedema can recur any time. I panic when my right hand is threatened—I need it to making a living. I need it to do art, write, keyboard, cook, drive, do laundry, write checks, wash dishes, peel oranges, “detail” my apartment, comb my hair, floss my teeth, and maneuver my blankets when I turn over in bed.
These concerns are not “nothing to worry about.” My dad would have stood up for me if he were still here: Dad was a plastic surgeon who abstained from almost every form of manual labor except trout and salmon fishing. Until he retired, he couldn’t even boil water. He was very careful with his hands and even had them insured. I miss my dad. He would have understood.
Looking for More on Lymphedema and Breast Cancer?
Learn more about the incidence of edema following breast cancer treament from www.cancer.gov.
My physical therapist said today that she treats breast cancer survivors with arms five times normal size. My flare-up is mild in comparison. I had only four lymph nodes removed, so I am less apt to suffer an extreme attack. As I tend to do when something bad happens, I’m trying to figure out why. What did I do to cause all this pain in my hands? Did it start when I vacuumed and scrubbed ten years of dust and debris out of my conversion van? (Men, I discovered, call this “detailing”.) Was it clutching my hot pink three-pound weights while bouncing on my mini-trampoline? Maybe it began after the hours and days of computer “mousing around” required for the layouts of my next children’s book.
Whatever—about three weeks ago, I got tendonitis in both hands, a condition I’ve fought for years. I normally treat it with ice, ibuprofen, rest, and a pair of worn, black leather bowling braces that make me look more vixen than victim. This time, however, the tight wristband that cured my left hand caused edema in my right.
Welcome to yet another medical facility. Today I made my second visit to physical therapy, a large, brightly lit, friendly place bristling with complicated workout equipment. I was given a light arm and hand massage, a few sheets of photocopied exercises, and a whopping bill. I got off easy—apparently, breast cancer lymphedema folks at my facility are often assigned nine double sessions of one and a half hours which include extensive massage, exercise, and a special compression glove and sleeve.
I’ve escaped most of that. So far. I was told that my lymphedema can recur any time. I panic when my right hand is threatened—I need it to making a living. I need it to do art, write, keyboard, cook, drive, do laundry, write checks, wash dishes, peel oranges, “detail” my apartment, comb my hair, floss my teeth, and maneuver my blankets when I turn over in bed.
These concerns are not “nothing to worry about.” My dad would have stood up for me if he were still here: Dad was a plastic surgeon who abstained from almost every form of manual labor except trout and salmon fishing. Until he retired, he couldn’t even boil water. He was very careful with his hands and even had them insured. I miss my dad. He would have understood.
Looking for More on Lymphedema and Breast Cancer?
Learn more about the incidence of edema following breast cancer treament from www.cancer.gov.
