She's had the medicine before. It stole her energy and her hair and made her sick all the time. After talking it over with her mother, Rosemary Duchon, she decided she didn't want her life to end in pain.
Duchon is Conley's strength in her waning days. She was in the chemo room at Norton Medical Plaza II this week when her daughter's doctor, Janell Seeger, told Conley that the Red Devil, or Adriamycin, is a good option but not the only one. She listened as Seeger suggested trying again with a different drug and told them there are more chemo drugs to try after that.
And she was there when her daughter asked the doctor, "What if I said I'm just done with chemo altogether?"
Decisions are getting harder as Conley's cancer spreads farther, and though it's agonizing for Duchon to watch her daughter suffer, she says she understands Conley's preference for quality of life over quantity and supports "whatever she wants to do."
The disease that began in Conley's breast has invaded her bones, lung lining and liver. Days of pain and weakness outnumber "pretty good" days, and the "good" days are gone. Conley can no longer throw herself full-force into events for her cancer charity, Jill's Wish, or her mission to share her belief that beauty can't be erased by illness.
"It finally hit me that I'm going to die of cancer. ... If I just walk up one flight of stairs, I feel exhausted," says Conley, 37, whose cancer journey is being chronicled by The Courier-Journal. "My best day is probably your worst day. I feel like there's a vacuum inside of me sucking all of the energy out of me."
Duchon of Las Vegas helps push her forward. They usually talk by phone, but this week, Duchon was in Louisville to visit Conley and decide when she needs to make a more permanent move. She eventually plans to take a leave of absence from her administrative assistant job and stay for the remainder of her daughter's life. She dreads those final days but knows they are coming.
"It's not in a parent's DNA to bury their children," says Duchon, 62. "As choices go, it's much easier to lose a child suddenly and quickly than like this – the constant ups and downs, living scan to scan.
"At this point, it would take a miracle or a cure to save her. And I can't even say I believe in miracles."
BATTLING THE BEAST
When Conley was born, Duchon remembers calling her "little Buddha" because she was big, healthy and strong.
"She was never fragile," Duchon says. "Just now."
Cancer and its treatments have ravaged Conley's body since her initial diagnosis five years ago. In quick succession, she had a double mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation and breast-implant surgery, only to have the left implant removed when radiation burned a hole in it. After all that, cancer resurfaced in her sternum two years ago, in the lining of her left lung late last year and in her liver in September.
Conley's husband, Bart, was first to get the news of the latest recurrence from doctors, and says the walk from his car to his St. Matthews apartment after that phone call was the longest of his life. The broad-shouldered former college football standout, accustomed to keeping a brave face for Conley, cried openly after telling his wife. Duchon stayed strong when she talked to Jill, but on her own, she "had these little breakdowns," realizing her daughter had far less time than everyone thought.
The latest recurrence meant a new type of chemo called vinorelbine, which caused body aches, stomachaches and mouth sores after the first session. Doctors added an anti-inflammatory drug the next week, and she fared better. The third session was rough again — and Bart, who wants her to do anything she can to live, realized she might decide it wasn't worth it. Though he understands that impulse, he deeply disagrees with the idea of stopping treatment because he fears it may hasten her death.
It's been a point of contention between Conley and her husband for a while — and the only big decision of hers that he doesn't support. So she's glad her mother stands behind her in this choice. And Bart is glad she can turn to and depend on another loved one who may offer comfort when he cannot.
"Obviously, it's another shoulder to cry on or talk to when I don't understand something," he says. "She's the one who's always been there."
Conley says her "spirits would have crumbled" in recent months if not for family and her public appearances and work with Jill's Wish, which raises money for families dealing with cancer. But she was having only a couple of "pretty good" days a week, so the constant activities and frequent flights that filled her life a few months ago became too taxing. She recently Skyped into a Toronto breast cancer fundraising gala because she felt too sick to go in person.
Then, the day after a trip to Cincinnati to be honored by the Bengals football team, Conley woke up sopping with sweat, barely able to breathe. Oxygen tanks had to be delivered to her apartment.
Doctors suggested it might be a rare reaction to the vinorelbine but couldn't say for sure. They raised the idea of switching her chemo to the Red Devil, and Conley raised the idea of ending her fight.
"If you think stopping the medicine will help you do more, it won't," Seeger warned. "You'll do less. You'll end up getting sicker."
For now, Conley is trying again with the vinorelbine and hoping the breathing problems were unrelated. She still holds out the possibility of letting go.
No matter which path she chooses, Seeger says it's impossible to know how long Conley has left.
Duchon says she thinks in months not years but worries she will alarm her daughter if she moves to Louisville too soon. Although she lived here for eight months when Conley was first diagnosed, she wonders if this time, Conley will see it as a sign Duchon has lost all hope. "It's a delicate thing," Duchon says.
Conley insists "it wouldn't freak me out if Mom moved here. I would love it. I know it's killing her to be so far away."
For Conley, the physical distance doesn't matter, she says, because she feels so close to her mother emotionally. They talk almost every day by phone, and if they go two days without talking, "you'd think she hasn't spoken to me in a month."
"Me and my mom, it's like we're mother-daughter but best friends," Conley says. "She's like a mother bear, and I'm her cub. That's what she always says."
Duchon, who is divorced from Conley's father, raised her and her three brothers alone during the early years of their childhood until she remarried, so Conley remembers her as "the mom and the dad," commanding respect and teaching her to respect others. She says she and Duchon are very different in some ways — she is a laid-back free spirit while Duchon is an organized planner — but they share the same interests, the same laugh, even the same shoe size.
During Duchon's visit, they went out to dinner and watched Lifetime movies in bed until falling asleep together. They talked about planning a girls' outing at a spa. They also talked seriously about the future, Duchon providing a dose of realism when many others sugar-coated the truth out of kindness.
"I'll be honest with her," Duchon says. "I always just tell her, 'I'll never lie to you. Chances are I'm going to outlive you, and I know that.' "
The point hit home at chemo this week. As Conley lay back in a chair, medicine dripping into her body, Duchon kept a watchful eye from across the room. She reminded her daughter that she doesn't yet have to decide whether to stop the chemo — and that Duchon will be there when Conley does.
Conley says she's well aware that no chemo will keep her alive forever.
Someday soon, "it will stop working. And when that time comes, I hope I don't have to suffer," she says. She grows quiet for a second, and her voice breaks as she continues. "When that day comes, I worry so much about my mom and Bart."
She tries not to think much about that day. She concentrates instead on living each moment and staying grateful — lessons she wishes other people, especially those rushing through their lives, would take to heart.
"If I die tomorrow, I know I lived the most fabulous, fun life ever," she says. "But I know there are people out there living to die, and I'm dying to live."
From USATODAY.COM
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