The directions tell Nade Haines to take five capsules of Phenytoin by mouth each day to reduce the odds of a seizure.

The transdermal patch on her leg releases 25 micrograms of Fentanyl an hour, dulling the pain below her ribs.

The cancer is in there, multiplying. But Haines quickly adds that there’s humor in cancer if one chooses to look for it.

Doctors first found cancer in her right breast in 2000. It moved to her left breast two years later. By 2006, the cancer had moved into her spine. When her arm went numb this June, doctors found it in her brain.

“One morning I was getting ready to go swimming,” she said, extending her right arm. “This arm got hit by this immense numbness and pain and throbbing sensation, like a blood pressure cuff was squeezing its way up my arm.”

Back then, doctors gave Haines three months to live if she did nothing all. She doesn’t talk about her prognosis as much as she does her perspective. Dealing with cancer has become her lifestyle. It’s not a lifestyle she chose, but it’s something she’s learning to deal with.

At her father’s home last week, with her daughter Susanna on one side and her friend Mary Olson on the other, Haines laughed about her lack of hair and admitted to moments of sorrow, though she leans more strongly toward optimism.

“It’s the spin-doctor thing, for sure; how you’re going to frame this and slant it for your own well-being,” she said. “I’d like to consider it a lifestyle, just like people live with diabetes and AIDS and hepatitis. These are all chronic illnesses.”

Haines grew up in New York. Her grandparents lived on the Lower East Side. She enjoyed the bowery, the Jewish quarter and NYU. She got a job as a tour guide at Lincoln Center and had a fine experience.

That was nearly a lifetime ago. She has lived in Helena for 26 years. Before the cancer set in, she worked as a jailer at the Lewis and Clark County detention center. An avid swimmer, the mother of four and the grandmother of three, she was strong going into the first round of treatment.

“I’m lucky because I was strong and athletic going into this,” she said. “So much of it depends on where in your life it hits you. It’s a learning experience if you let it be.”

Others have learned from her stoic — and some say stubborn — ways. Olson, who fights her emotions when talking about Haines and her “challenge,” has learned strength, character and dignity through her friend.

After the first diagnosis of breast cancer in 2000, Olson was there. She drove Haines home from the hospital. Together, they’ve worked through trying times.

“She has this inner peace that’s just unreal,” Olson said. “When she calls to tell me there’s a new diagnosis, she always tells me to breathe ahead of time. I made a commitment that whatever happened, I’d walk through this with her.”

The brain cancer brought some surprises. Haines talks about the 20/20 vision that returned after her cancer was discovered. She began recalling foreign phrases she learned as a girl, and long-forgotten words her grandmother once used.

The new recollections lasted three weeks, and then they vanished.

At the same time, she says, she has lapses in thought. She calls them brain-tumor moments, instances where she misspeaks. There are times when grammar and syntax become difficult.

Phrases get jumbled.

Her daughter, Susanna, tries not to think about her mother’s condition. She moved back to Seattle from Helena to be near her mother. Susanna, like all of Haines’ children, has made sacrifices to help where she can.

“It’s really one day at a time,” Susanna said. “I try not to think too much about it, and when I do, I start to tear up, like I am now.”

Susanna says her mother has traded more time by enduring treatments she described as brutal. Haines listens as her daughter speaks, but adds that strength comes from surprising places.

One photo on the table shows a team of women dressed in pink T-shirts. In a second photo, her friends spelled out “We love you Nade” on the football field. The picture was shot from above. The frame is signed by dozens of friends wishing her well.

She reads those well wishes each day. Not all of them at once, but a few words here and there. They lend courage, like the support group, Exceptional Women Surviving Cancer, which she will attend later this day.

“I’ve met so many of the heroes that I base my survival on there,” Haines said. “Many aren’t with us anymore in the physical, but I think about them spiritually.”

Haines believes that family and caregivers suffer the most. They fight the emotional battle while the patient keeps busy with appointments, treatments, side effects and maintaining.

The survivors are often businesslike.

The supporters bear the emotional burden.

“It honors me to be a part of this,” Olson interjects. “It brings me a lot of respect for her, and what she’s willing to do to extend her time here. It’s difficult to watch and it’s hard to see her in pain.”

Haines talks goals. There are things yet to be done. Making snow angels is one of them. She wants to make it to Christmas. She wants to be buried in frost-free ground.

She wants to live to be 100, so Willard Scott will show her picture on the Today Show.

“There’s more to life than this,” Haines said. “There’s a spiritual component that we’re here for a reason. Leaving my kids is the hardest part. My work is not yet done.

“I’m still here.”

Reporter Martin Kidston: mkidston@helenair.com or 447-4086