By Adriana Ermter
In our monthly column, senior writer and editor Adriana Ermter shares her personal experiences with breast cancer
I’m a Tamoxifen fail. I quit taking the drug just shy of my five-year prescription’s halfway mark. The estrogen-blocking pill fried my short-term memory within the first 14 days and then, tormented me daily with its version of Jay-Z’s “99 Problems.” And lucky me. I experienced every single one of them.
While my doctors casually mentioned that I may experience a side effect or two, as they placed a medical pamphlet in my hands, no one warned me that Tamoxifen would completely zap my former self, making me unrecognizable in the mirror and utterly depleted in real life. But it did. And it wasted no time.
Waves of exhaustion washed over me daily, making the grimy carpet beneath my office desk look so appealing I wanted to crawl onto it and sleep. Only the presence of my former boss who sat directly behind me stopped me from ever actually doing this. My body would have appreciated it though. Its newly stiffened joints throbbed with so much pain that walking up and down any set of stairs had become a two-hands-on-the railing job. Then there were the pounding headaches that blinded me, the constant nausea that had me carrying around a bag of Goldfish crackers in my purse like it was my only meal (sometimes it was), and the hourly hot flashes that seared through my body and left me red-faced and dripping.
In the evenings, night sweats drenched me, disrupting every dream and forcing me to sleep with a spare set of pajamas, bed sheets and a stack of towels next to my pillow. My vagina, on the other hand, was Shahara desert dry. Tamoxifen had catapulted my ovaries into instant menopause, halting my monthly period—the drug’s only silver lining. It killed my libido too, yet despite being single and wanting to date, the drug-induced 40-lbs I’d gained a mere three months after filling my prescription had simultaneously crushed my self-esteem. So, you can possibly understand why I couldn’t do the Tamoxifen time. And I’m not an anomaly.
According to a 2018 study from the Institut Gustave Roussy in Villejuif, France, nearly one in five premenopausal women like me, who are treated for early (stage I-III) breast cancer do not make it to Tamoxifen’s five or ten-year finish lines. I don’t know why the 12,000 women who participated in this study called it quits, but if I had to guess, their reasoning is the same as mine: quality of life.
The cumulative toll of daily discomfort combined with the emotional strain from taking Tamoxifen felt impossible and hopeless. On it I was less than, a shell, a dead thing going through the motions of pretend living. The prospect of continuing in this way filled me with despair. Thanks to Tamoxifen, I couldn’t remember people’s names. My thoughts were elusive; there one minute, gone the next. Because I couldn’t concentrate, researching, writing and editing articles—which is my livelihood—took ten times longer than usual to complete. I stopped reading books, hanging out with friends, watching the news, and taking walks outside. Nothing sparked my interest. For a naturally curious person with a million questions and ideas a minute, it was a hard place to reside. I felt dumb and useless. At home, when I was alone, constant anxiety and negative thoughts took over. I lacked the initiative and the motivation to do even the most basic things, like showering, brushing my teeth and making myself dinner. Many evenings, I just wouldn’t eat. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I failed at that too. Tamoxifen’s physical side effects were relentless.
Maybe I’m a wimp for not toughing it out, but I don’t regret my decision. It gave me back my life. Recently, I passed my five-year survivor’s mark, which caused me to pause and reflect on my tumultuous relationship with the drug. Had I not quit a couple of years ago I’d still be taking the little white pill for another six months. While my memory has improved, it has never fully recovered from breast cancer treatment, including Tamoxifen and I struggle with that, but at least I have energy and I’m active again. I can read books without labouring over a sentence or paragraph repeatedly. I have goals and a workback plan to achieve them. I feel good about myself. I know I’ll never recapture the person I was pre-cancer and I’m still working on losing the Tamoxifen weight, but I feel in charge of my life.
My choice isn’t for everyone. It’s certainly not the doctor recommended one and if you can do the Tamoxifen time, I actually encourage it. I took an enormous risk when I stopped taking my prescription. But I didn’t do it recklessly or secretly. I consulted my doctors about Tamoxifen’s crimpling side effects every step of the way. With their guidance I waited out the first three months to see if my symptoms would dissipate. When they didn’t, I tried multiple variations of the drug’s dosage and swallowed additional prescription drugs and natural supplements to boost my energy, improve my memory, reduce my anxiety and block my sweat glands. I took a cocktail of Tylenol and Advil, soaked in Epsom salt baths, pressed cool compresses against my forehead, neck and chest, drank mint tea and sucked on ginger lozenges—all to no avail.
Quitting Tamoxifen was my last choice. I weighed the pros and cons seriously, carefully evaluating the consequences that would come from staying on the drug or not. I can’t say with complete conviction that I’ve made the right decision because I don’t know what the future holds. I do know that by not fulfilling my five-year prescription, I could now be at a higher risk of a breast cancer recurrence, metastasis or even death. This isn’t something I take lightly, obviously, and sometimes I wonder if I’ll be okay. Not knowing is part of the disease, though. I didn’t know I’d find a lump in my right armpit while on assignment in the Middle East. I didn’t know I’d be diagnosed and now have permanent status as one of the one in eight women who are diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetime. But I was, I am. Just as equally, I can’t control what may or may not happen to or for me; I can only control how I respond to each experience. There’s only one thing I know for sure: quitting Tamoxifen helped me reclaim my life. And it was worth it.
Adriana Ermter is a multi-award-winning writer and editor. Her work can be read in Sotheby’s Insight, Living Luxe and IN Magazine, as well as online at 29Secrets.com, RethinkBreastCancer.ca and AmongMen.com. The former Beauty Director for FASHION and former Editor-in-Chief for Salon Magazine, Childview and Figure Skater Fitness magazines lives in Toronto with her two very spoiled rescue cats, Murphy and Olive. You can follow Adriana on Instagram @AdrianaErmter.
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