Without thinking much about it, I replied that I was doing all right. “I knew it!” he said with a big grin. “It’s coming back!” With that, my little man gently rubbed my head for the first of many times throughout my recovery.
Since then, we’ve finished chemotherapy, radiation, numerous surgeries, and endured several years of hormone therapy. It’s hard to say whether Christopher, now eleven years old, has any recollection of that period or not. I’m sure he isn’t aware of how serious things really were, as we were very careful not to use the “c” word in our house back then.
It’s funny how, as parents, we go through every day, constantly faced with challenges we didn’t expect, without a handbook, and often making important decisions on the spur of the moment. Our choice to provide our son with something tangible to help him understand our crisis was, I believe, the right one. To this day, he always tells me that I have pretty hair, and I wonder if somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s subconsciously harboring the memory of that difficult period of time.
We’ve always expected to be there for our children, to provide support and help them through life’s challenges. What we never counted on was the amount of strength we would draw from them, and just how big a role this little man would play in bringing our family through the most difficult of times. Thank you, Christopher.
Kathy Vancura
Debbie’s Story
What comes from the heart, goes to the heart.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
I had belonged to the cancer support group for three years, and Debbie had never been a regular attendee. In the advanced stages of ovarian cancer, she had too many places to go, people to meet and experiences to undergo.
But we always looked forward to her return, and after each adventure, Debbie would report back to the group.
“Ayers Rock is as amazing as I had hoped it would be,” she effused after her trip to Australia. “It was my dream to see it before I died.” And she brought out her photos and her stories and her smile. Debbie had a smile as wide as any room she entered. It is still my strongest memory of her.
I don’t think I ever knew what Debbie really did for a living, but someone once suggested she might have been a model. Even in her illness, she was beautiful. Or maybe that was her smile. Anyway, it didn’t really matter.
We never spent a lot of time at our meetings talking about the past. The present was too all-consuming for each of us.
Debbie was by no means the only member of our group who was facing her own death. Some traveled, like Debbie, braving exotic locations in spite of physical weaknesses or colostomy bags or post-treatment fatigue. Some stayed at home and made the most of remaining time with family and friends. Some were resigned, some philosophical, some fearful as they came to terms with their mortality. Death is a personal thing. But Debbie’s way was my favorite: facing it full-on, with verve and spunk and gusto and joy. On the night she announced she was leaving the city and moving to a hospice that would let her be nearer her family, I knew we would never see her again, and it left an empty place in my heart.
On a cold and dreary winter evening, one of our members reported her phone call to Debbie’s hospice. Surrounded by her family, Debbie was close to death. Her kidneys had failed, but in the final hours of her life, she still managed to take a brief phone call. She wished us all well. That had been several days before, so we knew she was gone. During the meeting, we lit a candle and had a moment’s silence in memory of our friend.
Two weeks later, Debbie appeared in the doorway of our meeting room. Thinner, weaker, walking with a crutch, she was assisted to a chair by her sister. “Hi,” she beamed. “Bet you didn’t expect me tonight!” We stared at her, stunned.
Debbie laughed. “Who (besides doctors) says doctors know it all, anyway?” she gushed. “There I was, at death’s door and beyond, and suddenly, for some reason, my kidneys kicked into gear. Go figure.” And she laughed again.
Her laughter waned. “I can’t stay long. I have to get back. It’s just, I know some of you are facing what I face, and I had to come tell you, it’s all right. I was there, you see. In fact, I feel cheated I had to come back. And it’s beautiful there, wherever it is. Then, all of a sudden, here I am again.” She shrugged. “I had to come and tell you all:
Don’t be afraid. You’re going to be okay.”
I don’t remember what happened after that. We all said good-bye, like we would see her next week. We knew we wouldn’t.
At our next meeting, we lit a candle for Debbie once again. During our moment of silence, I thought of her smile, and her warmth and joy. Debbie had given us her last report on her biggest journey.
Lolly Susi
Science Mom
Your first emotion isn’t, “Am I going to lose my breast?” It’s, “Am I going to lose my life?”
Linda Ellerbee
Telling people I had breast cancer was something I dreaded. Why? Because I was afraid of their reaction—that it would weaken me, that we would both cry, that we would fall apart. Most of all, I was worried to tell my parents.
Luckily, I was guided by Ted, a wise friend who had been through the journey before. He had lost his first wife to cancer, and he was well-versed in the strange and separate world that one enters after hearing the words, “You have cancer.”
“Keep it simple,” he said. “Stick to the facts.”
He urged me to find out the exact medical terminology for my type of cancer and use those terms when describing it to people for the first time. “If it’s a small ductal carcinoma, the easiest type to treat,’ then that’s what you should say.”
I practiced saying it a few times until it rolled off my tongue easily. I called my mother even though I was very worried about what her reaction might be. I didn’t want to scare her, or have her fall apart.
“Hi, Mother, I have some news about my recent mammogram I need to tell you. They found a small ductal carcinoma, the easiest type to treat, with the best success rates.”
I waited for her terrified response. To my utter shock, her reaction was quite the opposite—she was wonderful. She just listened, then asked intelligent questions, and then asked more questions about the scientific aspects. She became “science mom.” It was great.
Gradually, I became aware that I come from a family of strength. I got this image of my family of strong but feminine women, of which I’m a part. I don’t know what I thought my mother would say—she had always been strong in crises, and I felt really confident after talking to her. I told her it would be okay to tell everyone—in fact, I would welcome it. My fear of telling others turned out to be nonsense because everybody has been fantastic—very strong and calm.
And I know that Ted’s advice made it possible for all of us to pass through this frightening phase of the emotional and medical journey of breast cancer. Knowledge is power, and the ability to simplify and understand the enemy made it easier for me, my family and friends to deal with it. He gave the fear a name, and when something has a name it is robbed of its power.
Mary Olsen Kelly
Enjoy Life!
Time: consoler of affliction and softener of anger.
Charles Dickens
Ann kept saying, “Look two years down the road.” But what was I supposed to be looking at? I was sick, tired and scared. The future was uncertain, and the road ahead looked endless and filled with so many obstacles. Can my body hold up? Do I have enough inner strength and faith in God to meet this challenge? Will I find sunshine and happiness at the end? I didn’t know the answers, but when I felt my eight-year-old’s hand in mine, I knew I had to “look two years down the road.”
Ann was a friend of my husband’s family, and when she heard I had cancer, she suggested we get a second opinion. The answer was the same: chances were fifty/fifty that my cancer would come back. But she didn’t give up and got me an appointment with a private doctor who was one of the best in the country. He suggested I go through some stronger chemothera
py in five months and predicted I’d do well. He gave me a better chance of surviving and believed I’d live to a ripe, old age. Hope came like a sunrise.
And I had Ann: “Don’t believe statistics, because no two cancer patients are alike.” I thought, If four out of ten people survive longer than five years, then I’m going to be one of those four people. I visualized that I was healthy, and the cancer cells were disappearing. I did this every day.
My will to survive strengthened every time I looked at my sons. My older son was fifteen, and I knew he still needed me to help him over some of the bumps in life. My younger son was eight, and he needed me more than anyone else. I remember praying that God would give me just ten more years to live so I could see my younger son graduate from high school.
Finally, one day I got tired of living in fear. I got angry! I remember thinking: If I am going to die and no one knows when that’s going to be, then I’m going to enjoy the time I have left! I realized that if I did live a long time, I’d end up being mad at myself for wasting so much of my life when I could have been enjoying it. A nurse told me when I first started chemo, “I believe that when your job on Earth is done, only then will you die.” I thought this was a wonderful outlook on life, and I began to feel the same way.
I honestly believe these thoughts were the real turning points in my fight against cancer. I started on the long journey to continue conditioning my mind to stop worrying about when I was going to die and started to live one day at a time. It took a lot of mental training to overcome my fears, but soon days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and I was still here. I knew there would still be bad days ahead, but I now had the inner strength to deal with them.
Ann was right—it took two years for me to complete my treatments and feel better. There were still occasional days when I was afraid, especially when I had to have a bone scan or blood work done to see if the cancer was still in remission.
Underneath it all, I was amazed and awed by the way my life had turned out. I saw my younger son graduate from high school—an emotional day for me. I felt remarkably well and was doing things I had never dreamed I’d be able to do: laughing again, working a full-time job and watching my family grow up.
What would I tell someone fighting cancer? Look two years down the road—when your treatments are done, your hair has grown back, and your body has recovered. Believe that you are going to beat the odds even when it doesn’t seem possible. I did. Persevere. There were times I was utterly exhausted and wanted to give up, but I knew my family needed me.
Find the reason you need to survive and hold onto it. Don’t worry about dying. That is in God’s hands. Just live and be grateful for each joy, each day.
Regina Dodson
Filler
The happiest moments of my life have been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family.
Thomas Jefferson
My husband and I went to Paducah, Kentucky, one Thanksgiving to meet with our son and his family, who had come from Florida. They stayed in a motel with an indoor swimming pool.
After spending Thanksgiving Day with the family, the grandkids wanted to go swimming. My oldest grandson Harrison, age six, asked, “Granny, can you come swim with me?”
“Yes,” I said, and I got my swimsuit, prosthesis and a towel. Off we went.
Now, this swimsuit was not made for breast-cancer women, so I got on my bathing suit and put the prosthesis in the cup of the suit. We walked down to the pool, jumped in and swam to the steps. Harrison got out first and turned around to help me.
His eyes got as big as saucers as his jaw dropped. He pointed at me and said, “Grandma, did you come from another planet?”
I looked down to where he was pointing and saw that my prosthesis had come out of the cup and had slid down to my belly button.
“I’ve come a long way,” I answered.
Bonnie Seibert
Heart Massage
The first time I met Jeanie, she was walking down the path in front of my apartment, and I was walking toward her. I noticed that she was wearing a pink ribbon, and I was wearing mine, too. I stopped in front of her and said, “Wow, looks like we have something in common.”
She was taken aback and replied, “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re wearing your pink ribbon and so am I. Do you know some one who was diagnosed with breast cancer?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Me.” She walked away quickly.
I’m a licensed massage therapist, and in my work over the years I have seen many people in pain. Recently, I have been seeing a lot of women with breast cancer.
A few days later I received a phone call from Jeanie’s husband. I had given him a massage the year before, when they visited my island home.
“I’d like to give my wife a massage as a gift and surprise her. She said she met you yesterday and had a good feeling about you.”
When Jeanie walked into my massage room a few days later, she seemed tense and angry. It was a warm, beautiful day, and her treatment had been a gift from her husband, so I was puzzled why she was upset.
“Are you feeling well?” I asked.
“My back hurts, and I’m a little nauseous.”
And yet she was here and wanted to have her body massaged. I left the room, as I always do, to give her privacy for changing clothes and positioning herself on the massage table.
After I got her situated, the bed adjusted and my hands washed, I began by resting one hand at the base of her neck and the other on her lower back, allowing us both to become quiet.
In a calm voice, I suggested, “Let your eyes close and bring your attention to your breath.” After several minutes, I applied warmed lotion and gave light, delicate stroking motions to her back and neck. I used long, slow movements to soothe her and encourage rest.
As I give a massage, I remind myself that there is nothing to “fix.” I need only to “be present” with the person who is going through discomfort.
As soon as I turned her over onto her back, her breathing became ragged, and she began to cry. I let her cry quietly for a while, and then asked, “Would you like me to incorporate mental imagery into the session?” She nodded.
“You can soften the discomfort you’re feeling and be open to it rather than push it away.” That was all. No other words. Just “open” and “soften.”
At the end of the treatment, as I was holding and stretching her neck, she began sobbing. I continued holding her without comment, allowing her a safe place to cry, to release, to heal.
While Jeanie was getting dressed, she quietly but firmly said, “I would like to reschedule at least one more treatment with you while I’m here in Maui. I recently had a double mastectomy. As part of my healing process, I tried massage, but the therapist was clinical and cold, and the massage was painful and traumatic. I was terrified to get another treatment—and that’s why I was so upset when I came here.
“I can’t begin to tell you how much lighter in body and spirit I feel right now. And so connected! At the risk of crying all over again, I want to let you know how much you have helped me today to take that first huge step back toward allowing another human being to touch me . . . without fear or shame or remorse! Thank you!”
It is an honor to be able to perform this type of healing work, and I was filled with a profound sense of grace and warmth. Light filled me. A completely transformed woman emerged from the massage session, and another transformed woman prepared her massage studio for the next client.
Pandora Kurth
My Heroes
Believe that life is worth living, and your belief will help create that fact.
William James
“Hero”—a word that is misused and often overused in today’s society. We make instant media heroes of people for acts that should be expected from one person to another. Young boys believe you’re a hero if you make millions and can play a sport better than someone else. Young girls feel the same way about celebri
ties and measure their worth by this invalid yardstick.
Some special people are heroes to me: I met them at the local cancer center while going through treatments for breast cancer. I entered with an open mind and didn’t know what to expect. What I discovered were people who constantly amazed me. I met them at different stages in their cancers. Some were at the end of treatment, knowing that cancer would win the battle. Others, more fortunate, whose disease was caught in time and treated, had hope of a long or permanent remission. I met women and men who, while suffering through chemotherapy and radiation, never lost their sense of humor. Some had young families, and some were grandparents.
In a room filled with all these troubles, I met my heroes. Each day I found new friends who loved life and loved to laugh . . . people whose diseases took much, but never broke their spirit or took the laughter from their lives. In the waiting room, we joked about our lives beyond our illness, and our laughter often echoed all the way down the hall. We celebrated when each of us had our last radiation treatment, and we hugged each other good-bye when it was time “to graduate.” We also supported each other when problems occurred. At one point, I was burned by the radiation, and my fellow patients brought me through. I have been incredibly blessed by family, friends and fellow patients.
These are my heroes—ordinary, extraordinary beings who live life and are grateful for every new day, who have the compassion to care for their families and each other while battling cancer. My prayer is that their remissions are permanent and their lives are long and joyous.
Maria McNaught
“Tweety Conquers That Mean
Old Bweast Cancer”
Iattribute my success to this—I never gave or took any excuse.
Chicken Soup for the Breast Cancer Survivor's Soul Page 4