My Brush with the “C” Word
A doctor walked into a room and said without fanfare, “You have cancer.” When a
routine mammogram revealed a lump three weeks prior, I naively expected that all
my positive thinking, prayer, yoga, meditation, regular walks and spiritual faith would
somehow render me immune to anything more threatening than a cyst or benign
fibrous tissue. I had forgotten the random rule of this adventure we call life: “shit
happens.”
When the doctor made his blunt pronouncement, I had just come around
after an open-incision biopsy. My husband, Rick, and I looked at each other with, to
put it mildly, bewildered expressions. The doctor then spoke briefly of treatment
options and set an appointment for the following week. Finally, I was handed
virtually every piece of literature about breast cancer ever printed by the American
Cancer Society, and we were escorted out the door.
It appeared that I was facing radiation treatments five days a week for six
weeks, unless the lymph nodes were involved, which would be determined by a
follow-up biopsy. If the lymph nodes were also cancerous, they would also be
removed. If that was the case, it was recommended that chemotherapy be added to
the treatments. Still digesting the fact that I would be zapped repeatedly for six weeks
by something I’d always heard was harmful, there was now the prospect of
chemotherapy, the stuff that makes you extremely weak and nauseous and makes your
hair fall out. I’m ashamed to admit that there was a tiny voice somewhere in the
recesses of my mind saying, “Hey, you may go bald, but on the bright side, you may
get back into your skinny clothes.”
We were supposed to call friends as soon as we knew something, but neither of
us had the wherewithal to do it, as we sullenly headed toward home about thirty-five miles northwest of the hospital. Finally, I punched in the cell number of a friend,
wondering what I was going to say. I found that the “coulda been better – coulda
been worse” approach seemed to fit the occasion.
We drove on in silence, until I answered a call from my friend, Cheryl, who
shared her own special brand of concern, spiritual wisdom and insight. We did not
mention the heart-wrenching struggle she suffered through only a couple of years
before, when her beloved husband died an agonizing death from a brain tumor. No,
that was his and this was mine. Cheryl had been a blessing in both our lives, and I
would reap the benefit of the deeper trove of love, compassion and insight she now
had to draw upon.
My phone rang again, and this time, it was Jeni, the third side of the soul-friend
triangle that creates such a bedrock of love and support in my life. I gave her the
report and we agreed that it coulda been better, coulda been worse. Then we said
encouraging words to each other and shared a laugh that I might have stumbled upon
a bizarre new weight-loss program, but one she didn’t care to try.
Another call, from our daughter, Amanda, and we rode the rest of the way in
virtual silence, lost in our own thoughts. Before arriving home, there was still the
matter of telling Rick’s mother, who is widowed and lives at the end of our road. My
courageous mother-in-law had faced two mastectomies in recent years, bouncing back
from both with flying colors. I had used her as an example when first informing our
sons, Zach and TJ, that there could be a problem. Not realizing the impact my words
might have on impressionable teenagers, I said, “Worst-case scenario, your
grandmother is living proof that a woman can live just fine without her breasts.” In
retrospect, I think they were thoroughly repulsed by my coarse attempt at being
cavalier about the situation.
Once inside our own front door, my eyes fell upon my home office, from
which I telecommute in my job as a paralegal for a private law firm. I realized the need to contact my employers, not only because my work might be affected, but also
because I am fortunate to feel both a professional respect and personal connection
with my employers. Fearing that I would trip over my words and they would squirm
with the discomfort of having to listen to my personal saga, while at the same time
pondering its potential effect on their business, I finally relied upon the impersonal
reach of electronic mail.
Prior to my own diagnosis, I believed there was nothing more healing than
prayer, visualization and mediation. But, since I was apparently not spiritually evolved
enough to rely solely upon those methods, I relied upon my doctor for the time being.
I was reminded of the story about the man stranded on the rooftop during a flood,
who patiently sent away the boat and helicopter saying, “The Lord will take care of me,”
only to eventually drown. When he questioned why God let him drown, the Almighty
replied that he sent a boat and a helicopter, what was the guy waiting for? My doctor
was my boat and/or helicopter pilot for the time being, and I trusted his skills to
guide our craft safely to dry land, while I tried not to rock the boat or walk into the
chopper blade.
I had always believed in God, or a higher power, to some degree. He had saved
me from many bad choices during my impetuous youth. And later blessed me beyond
measure, with a wonderful husband; three healthy children, who have now grown into
fine young adults; beautiful, bright grandchildren; extended family that reaches across
the field and across the country; loving friends both near and far; an extraordinary
home on a hillside built primarily by my husband’s blood, sweat and tears; an
interesting job with people I enjoy and respect; and a church that feeds my spirit. I
wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this aberration that had invaded my otherwise
charmed life, but deal with it I must.
Some kind of purge was building inside me, as I robotically went through the
motions of assuring everyone else that I’d be fine. The rigid medical bra that trussed
me up so tightly after the biopsy seemed to be a metaphor for the tenseness in my
mind and body. I feared any emotion that might seep out to reveal what a puny little
sap I was, after all. Not me—I could handle this just fine, thank you very much.
Then one evening, Rick came home after an exhausting day, and I was in the mood to
discuss a problem concerning one of our kids. When I said I’d like to have a
conversation, he asked if it could wait for a few minutes, while he had the rare
opportunity to sit down and watch the evening news. That was the wrong answer, and
a perfect opportunity for me to vent a little steam, rather than surrendering to the
volcano of emotion welling up inside me. Full of self-righteous indignation, I
lambasted my husband for not knowing how to communicate, being insensitive to my
situation and his children’s problems, ad infinitum. By this time, the tears were freefalling down my cheeks, but instead of becoming defensive or combative, Rick walked
over and put his arms around me. What a cheap trick, when I was spoiling for a fight.
And it worked, as my anger was immediately diffused, so we could talk calmly about
the situation. Afterward, I dissolved into great, heaving sobs and it suddenly hit me
that this was one of those hidden blessings behind every dark cloud. I could finally
cry. Only problem was, I had trouble stopping.
I began to seriously question whether I wanted the lymph-nodebiopsy/radiation/possible chemo treatment, or if I should opt for a mastectomy and
be done with it. Weighing the options and possible ramifications, I even began
searching for the biblical passage that had been haunting me, about when your hand
smites you, cut it off. I remembered that verse as addressing the left hand, symbolic to
me, since I am left-handed and my left breast was the one in question.
Had my left breast smote me by having cancer, and if so, should I then cut it
off? Funny that I was one who spouted off about zealots that take the Bible out of
context to support their right-wing causes, and here I was, anxiously searching for a
passage that I remembered from childhood. Unable to find the scripture in question
solely by memory, I did the 21st century next best thing and Googled it. Frantically
searching for a scripture dealing with the left hand, all I could find were references to
the strength and prowess of us lefties. A nice little surprise, but not very helpful in the
present situation. Finally stumbling upon a site that had the correct verse, I was
stunned to realize that it was the right hand all along. I had to conclude that the
symbolism may have been misplaced and it was possible that I didn’t have to cut off
my breast after all.
By the time of my next appointment, I was undecided about treatment, but still
considering the mastectomy alternative. I gave the doctor all my logical reasons: i.e.,
all my children were grown, so my nursing days were over; I’m not too vain to part
with a piece of my anatomy that has served its purpose and has never defined me; and
last, but far from least, a mastectomy would mean the end of treatment and it could
all be over in one day, save the recuperation. The doctor didn’t want to influence me
in any way, so he simply related all the clinical details I needed, one of which
bewildered me. He advised that a mastectomy would not necessarily rule out the need
for chemo, which would still be required if the removed lymph nodes were cancerous.
Once again, I found myself chasing my tail on what to do. In the midst of weighing all
the options, I finally had an epiphany. There was no wrong choice. Whatever I
decided to do would be fine. It wasn’t as though the right choice was behind door
number one, and if I mistakenly chose door number two, God and a heavenly host of
angels would be laughing, slapping their knees and saying “gotcha!”
Three agonizing days after the lymph node biopsy, the results were in. The
cancer was gone. Since there was no cancer in the sentinel lymph node, I was
particularly relieved that I had opted for the biopsy rather than the mastectomy, which
would have arbitrarily removed all the lymph nodes as a precaution, causing a whole
different set of problems. When my doctor called with the results of the pathology
report, I could hear in his voice that he was pleased to be calling with good news. I
wondered how many of the other kind of calls he had to make.
When I met with the radiation oncologist to consider treatment options, we
discussed the method called “Brachytherapy,” a treatment which injects the radiation
right to the site of the former tumor, where almost all breast tumors recur, if they’re
going to come back. Brachytherapy used a system of catheters that remain in the
breast during the five-day, twice a day, series of treatments. The other option for
radiation treatment was direct-beam, the external, x-ray-like procedure, given once a
day, five days a week, for six weeks. The oncologist and I agreed that I would be a
good candidate for Brachytherapy. In addition to the obvious advantage of a five-day
series of treatments, versus a six-week schedule, I learned that Brachytherapy also left
the patient less fatigued than the direct-beam method.
Feeling confident that I’d made an informed decision about my own care, my
only remaining question was whether my health insurance provider would cover the
treatment. After several frustrating phone calls, I learned it would not. If I were a man
with prostate cancer, Brachytherapy would be covered. However, the very same
method had not been used as long to treat breast cancer as prostate cancer, and the
insurance company considered it experimental in that application. Extremely dejected
to be facing the longer, seemingly harder method of treatment, I resisted the
temptation to take up a crusade against my insurance provider, on the basis of gender
discrimination. It might be a fight worth fighting, but I wasn’t up for the challenge.
Given the best possible news after the last biopsy, I knew that I should just be
grateful that there was treatment available. And I was grateful, particularly that I lived
near a major cancer treatment center where the finest care was available. Astonished
by the number of patients coming and going at the cancer center, I sadly realized that
many of them were in far worse shape than me, with more devastating prognoses, and
facing more drastic treatments than I faced.
I was humbled by the legions of people that had gone before me: patients that
might as well have been handed a death sentence along with their diagnoses; family
members that could only watch as their loved ones wasted away, eaten alive by a
perverse proliferation of their own cells, for which no cure and only rudimentary
treatments were available; doctors, nurses, researchers, technicians, and caregivers that
were frustratingly limited in their ability to provide comfort and relief; and finally
those brave women that had no choice to make, save disfigurement or death, when
mastectomy was the only treatment available for breast cancer.
I was still wrestling with some anger, resentment, and self-pity. My inner child
was still lying on the floor, kicking and screaming, throwing a tantrum because she
didn’t want to have to face this. “It is what it is,” scolded her adult counterpart.
“Grow up and deal with it.” On any given day, I never knew which personality would
appear.
With one week down and five to go, I was pleasantly amazed at how quick and
painless the radiation treatments had been. The technicians cautioned that there might
be more fatigue and skin irritation as time went on. But, just by beginning the
treatments and realizing that it wasn’t nearly as daunting as I’d feared, some of the air
was released from the stress chamber I’d been living in for weeks.
Two years have now passed, along with five clear mammograms, since my final
radiation treatment. I survived the tumor, two needle biopsies, two open-incision
biopsies, six weeks of radiation treatments, along with various physical and emotional
highs and lows. I take an estrogen-blocker for another three years, prompting the
need for occasional bone scans to screen for the potential side-effect of osteoporosis.
My brush with the “C” word wasn’t always easy, but it wasn’t always hard, either. It
just was. Past tense. I pray that it will always remain past tense.