I finally dragged myself out of bed and into the shower to start my busy day. There was lots to do at work, and my mind raced with all the little things that needed my attention in the house.
As I stood in the shower, I planned the menu for dinner. Lemon chicken, rice and then:
Is that a lump? What am I feeling in my breast? I swear this wasn’t here yesterday. It must just be a bruise, some small swelling that surely will be gone by tomorrow.
Two weeks before the holidays, I didn’t have time for this nonsense.
I continued with this childlike magical thinking for a few days while my mind slowly began to accept I had to do something. I called my gynecologist of 20 years, the woman I’d trusted her to deliver my precious son. For the past three years, I’d told her my breasts were more dense and my bra size was getting larger. She always reassured me, calling the changes normal.
I asked why I didn’t need at least a baseline mammogram so we could see changes from year to year. She asked me if I trusted her. I said I did. I guess I heard what I wanted to hear. Now, however, I couldn’t deny there was a lump, and I demanded a prescription for the mammogram I’d neglected for 45 years.
It’s difficult to describe what happened in my brain when the doctor first uttered the words, “You have cancer.” Everything went into slow motion, and I didn’t hear the words that followed. All I could think was,I’m going to die. The thought of leaving my child, husband, family and friends terrified me. The tears seemed never to end.
My cancer was Stage 3 and had spread to my lymph nodes. Ringing in my ears were the words of my gynecologist telling me, year in and year out, not to worry.
To add insult to injury, each specialist asked why I didn’t insist on having prior mammograms. I felt blamed for believing in my gynecologist.
If I’d been more proactive, I could greatly have reduced my chances of requiring chemo or radiation. I was always the person who planned, took charge and got it done. But not this time. The thought of cancer filled 98 percent of my brain, and I deferred to my surgeon and oncologist.
My power seemed to have left me, and I pined for it. How could I get my power back? Somehow one chemo appointment shocked me into reality again. I knew I’d better start regaining control.
At the start of each chemo treatment, I was tense and upset. Each time the nurse inserted the needle to deliver the chemicals that were part of the cure, I cried. As my eyes welled up in anticipation, my husband, who had accompanied me, said with disgust, “You’re not going to cry again, are you?” The tears ran full force. Truly, I thought I would go insane until the nurse suggested I join Women Helping Women: Tackling Cancer Together, run by Brandy Johnson, a social worker at Saint Clare’s.
In that group I met “sisters” who helped me through this scary time and helped make sense of my world again. Looking forward to this weekly haven and the encouragement of my new girlfriends were my saving grace.
No longer alone with the disease, I came to understand there is life after cancer!
Slowly, I began to take back the power I had allowed cancer to strip from me.
I pushed myself to drive to all of my radiation appointments on my own and called on my girlfriends for the emotional support I needed to get through the nine months of treatment.
Then I got to thinking, If I could survive this, what else could I do?Cancer gave me the strength to face other fears that previously had terrified me, like going through a divorce or losing my job. I began looking for ways to bring myself back to life. I took up trap shooting. Pulling the trigger, feeling the power of a shotgun against my shoulder and being able to hit a clay pigeon out of the air is a powerful experience.
As a survivor, I draw in positive energy by remembering what I have to celebrate rather than dwelling on the illness. I have only a small scar on my breast, which I choose to wear as a badge of honor and proof of dues paid to join the “survivors’ club.”
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