My diagnosis was bleak. With a mastectomy forced upon me at the age of thirty-eight, so many fears controlled my thoughts that it was almost impossible to make life-saving decisions with any degree of confidence.
Our picture-perfect life had come to a screeching halt, and I went from a skilled executive-decision-maker to a woman who stumbled with not only life-saving choices, but also any simple, routine choices for daily living. Not only had I lost confidence in myself and in life, I had to try to face the realities of potential death while soothing the fears of our daughter and son. Then there was the element of intimacy with my husband. How was I supposed to make love to him in my remaining days when I didn’t even know how I felt about myself as a woman? It was difficult to face the fact that someday he might want to be with another woman after my death—one who would have real breasts. These fears were almost as haunting as dying. No one discussed these issues with me, nor had I read anything on such a private matter. And it was apparent that I would have to address this soon, as my husband was showing intense interest in lovemaking before my drainage tubes were even removed. I was worried I might not ever want to make love again. And if I ever did, what type of nightgown would I wear—could I even consider not wearing a nightgown?
I continuously questioned why this experience ever happened to me, my husband, my family and our marriage. Would I ever feel that I would be feminine, desirable and alluring again?
Our first few love-making episodes after my mastectomy are ones that I will never, ever forget. I cried throughout those entire moments spent cradled in his arms. I cried for the woman I used to be. I cried for the lovemaking we used to have that would never be again. And I cried uncontrollably in the fear that my marriage would be over and David would never want me again. Yet he held me tenderly, with gentle love and quiet assurances.
It wasn’t that night that I understood the depth of my husband’s love; it wasn’t even the weeks or months following. I still to this day reflect upon the depth of this man’s love for me and marvel at what the experience of breast cancer has continued to teach me about love, and all its varying degrees, year after year since 1992.
My oncologist witnessed my husband’s commitment to my healing process, as David had been at my side for every doctor’s appointment since my surgery. At one follow-up appointment, however, David was not there because he had an urgent business matter to attend to. So when I went alone to the appointment, my oncologist asked me if we were still together after all David and I had been through. This question shocked me, as if the oncologist knew something that I didn’t know. The oncologist then advised me that many marriages break up after breast cancer.
I reflected upon this information for days and was irate, thinking, What is it with men!? And, of course, I prayed that my marriage wouldn’t be one of those statistics.
It took time for me to understand that it wasn’t men I was really angry with for not accepting women as they were. It was me that I was deeply angry with and afraid of. I was fearful that David would see I was no longer seeing myself as a whole woman and hadn’t believed in who I was even before the discovery of breast cancer.
Amazingly, life was teaching me through this journey of breast cancer that I was a whole woman with the young, beautiful breasts I used to have, as well as with the complete removal of one breast and another significantly reduced. I have learned that the more whole I feel about myself, the more whole I feel about my life and my marriage.
Without my “real” breasts, I now feel more whole as a woman than before. I never expected that the journey, which started with the words “for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health,” would eventually lead me to experience richer values, in spite of my health.
Beverly Vote
“I’m past the sexy nightie stage of my life.
I’ve rediscovered my flannel side.”
Reprinted with permission of Stephanie Piro ©2002.
Sometimes You Just Get Lucky
If a man does his best, what else is there?
General George S. Patton
Why me? I have asked that question more times than I care to count over the past twenty-four years, and the only answer that makes any sense is “sometimes you just get lucky.” I am a four-time breast-cancer survivor and have lived with cancer for most of my adult life. I know little else—I have no sense of how my life might have been without cancer. Everyone’s life has a rhythm: get the kids up and off to school, hurry to work, rush to the supermarket after work to buy food for the next day’s breakfast, check homework, get kids to bed on time, then collapse into bed to recharge for another day.
My life rhythm is almost identical, but it includes another element that those spared from breast cancer will never know: regular visits to the oncologist, scans, X-rays, ultrasounds, biopsies, surgeries, breast reconstruction, implants, chemotherapy, radiation, tamoxifen, reading and researching, blood tests, and more. It’s a carefully choreographed movement that develops its own rhythm. Get the kids up, rush to work, visit the oncologist, get blood work done, pick up the toaster waffles, check homework, read the latest findings on a new and promising drug or vaccine, then bedtime for all.
That is my life. Most wouldn’t trade theirs for mine, whatever the price, yet I consider myself lucky and wouldn’t trade places with them either. I don’t always catch the green lights at precisely the right moment or choose the quickest line at the supermarket. But how could I not feel lucky? I’m fifty-three years old and still here! Since my first diagnosis of breast cancer at the age of twenty-nine, I’ve had the privilege of waking to 8,760 mornings. I’ve celebrated twenty-four birthdays. I carried, delivered, nurtured and raised two beautiful children, now in their teens, who show great promise for a bright future. I played a mean game of tennis for years. I jumped for joy at the publication of my first children’s book. I’ve learned to sail. I have a house with a view of the water. All this, while living with breast cancer. How could anyone think my life has not been lucky?
Friends and family have told me often they could NEVER go through what I’ve been through. This statement is a curious one. I want to ask, “Would the alternative be better?” We all know the answer to that question.
Somehow, when faced with adversity, strength pays you a visit. It invites itself in and begins its transformation on your inner being. Emotions, resolve, the will to win, all of which have been at a constant simmer, begin to boil and erupt with a determination to beat this challenging opponent. Does everyone win? Sadly, no. There are no quick and ready answers as to why. But you must try with a vengeance to ensure you’ll be here to do whatever it is you’re destined to accomplish. My belief in that thought kept me going through each biopsy or chemotherapy treatment. I knew my journey had miles to go, and I couldn’t give up without my best effort.
People often ask me, “If you could relive your life, would you change anything, or wish to be cancer-free?”
My answer is always no. Everything that has happened to me, including having had cancer four times, has led me to this exact place in my life. There is a reason my life evolved the way it did. Someday I hope to learn that reason.
Has cancer been easy? Not always. Did it change my focus? Absolutely! Has it forced me to stop and pay attention to the important things in my life? Without question. And I wouldn’t change a thing. I like a good challenge, and I’ll take luck wherever I can get it.
Arlette Braman
I Am Not Alone
There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle; the other is as though everything is a miracle.
Albert Einstein
“Hi . . . am I the first?” I asked tentatively as I entered the room, and she immediately came toward me, hands outstretched in welcome.
“I’m Leatrice. Did you call me?” Her eyes were a soft, warm brown, her smile quick and sincere.
“Yes, I got the information from the hospital. I’m Janice.” I nervously brushed long blonde hair over my
shoulder.
“Oh, yes, Janice. Welcome. I’ll be running the group tonight.”
A tall Caucasian woman walked into the room, her head wrapped in a bright magenta scarf. She smiled at Leatrice, then at me.
“Hi, Joanne. This is Janice; it’s her first night.”
Joanne took a seat, cracked open her water bottle and had a long drink. “I’m trying to drink eight glasses a day, but it’s really hard. Some days the water tastes like a metal doorknob.”
“I know,” Leatrice replied, her midnight black hair bobbing as she nodded her head. “Try lemonade or Gatorade. Some days it’s easier to get down than water.”
Two Asian women walked in. One was quite young, the other in her fifties. The older woman said, “I heard about the group from my doctor.”
“Welcome. Let’s begin.”
Joanne raised her hand. “I’ll start. I just did my second round of chemo last Thursday. I’m on A.C. for four rounds: Adriamycin and Cytoxin. I’m stage two; three lymph nodes positive. I’m having trouble with my port—it kinked up and really scared me. I was afraid they wouldn’t be able to use it for the next round. The port is a godsend; it saves my veins from collapsing like my friend’s did. That’s why I want to keep it working perfectly. Usually I’m really happy with it.”
“Are you going to drive while you go through your treatment?” Leatrice asked.
“I have to, since I can’t get any time off from work.”
“Be careful of the seat belt then; it can really rub on your port. I had a piece of sheepskin wrapped around the seat belt, and that really helped—kept it from rubbing,” she said. “I went through breast cancer seven years ago. I had a lumpectomy, and I’m doing fine.”
I looked at her in awe. She was filled with such energy, health and vitality! I marveled at the way she had graciously welcomed everyone, making each of us feel comfortable and safe. I said, “It’s really inspiring to meet women who have been through this and are doing great. I look at you and begin to believe: if you can do it, I can do it.”
She looked at me kindly. “Why don’t you tell us about you?”
“I’m Janice, just diagnosed two weeks ago. I go in for surgery next week. I don’t know yet if I need to have chemo—won’t know until after the tumor and the lymph nodes are checked out. I’m having a port put in next week, and I’m really nervous about it.” I looked quickly from one woman to the next. “I had a lumpectomy two weeks ago, but have to go back in for more surgery Wednesday because they didn’t get clear margins the first time—the tumor was bigger than they thought it would be. They need to have a section of healthy tissue around the tumor to have a clear margin.” Suddenly, all the tension and fear I’d been holding came flooding out, and I began to cry.
“I’m really confused—still in shock, I think.” I struggled to talk as the tears flowed down my face. “I just can’t believe this is really happening.”
Leatrice pushed a box of Kleenex over to me. “It’s still so new,” she sighed.
Another woman spoke up. “I’ll go next: I’m Sandra, twenty-eight. I was diagnosed with stage three, several tumors in each breast. I had a double mastectomy four months ago, and I’m going to have reconstruction as soon as possible. I don’t know why this happened to me; I have no history of breast cancer in my family. I think you can drive yourself crazy trying to figure out why. There is no ‘why.’ What is, is. You just have to face it and get on with it.”
Another woman said, “I’m so hot!” and she reached up and took off her baseball cap, along with the wig she wore underneath. “Whew, that’s better! I can’t handle this thing.” Her head was covered with fine, downy fuzz about a quarter of an inch long.
“Hey! Look at that! You have hair, girl.” Leatrice was laughing.
“It’s starting to come back in—finally. I’m sick of this wig. I went in for my last chemo four weeks ago and have been in radiation for a week. I go every day. It takes about ten minutes, no sweat. After chemo, anything is a piece of cake, if you ask me.”
“How long do you have to go for radiation?” Joanne asked.
“Thirty-three treatments, about six to seven weeks, then I’m done—I hope.” She brushed her hand over her head and smiled, “It’s really coming in soft. Like a baby.”
I must have been staring at her because she turned to me. “The best thing is if you shave your own head. Don’t wait for the disease to take your hair—do it yourself. It will make you feel much more powerful, like you’re the boss, not the cancer.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Soon the two hours were over. I felt elated. My first breast-cancer support group had been so powerful. I’d learned about ports and wigs and clear margins. I’d seen the proud beauty and strength of these women, and I felt as though I was being heard and understood in a way that none of my friends or family could provide. Only someone who had walked the path could give me the answers I sought. After months of searching, I had found a sanctuary, a temple of wise women to guide and train me.
I was not alone.
Mary Olsen Kelly
4
CHARACTER
Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experiences of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved.
Eleanor Roosevelt
Laundry Soap
This is the first time I’ve sat and thought about what I really want to do, and what I really want is to be a grandmother.
Diahann Carroll
The Marie Curie Cancer Care center in North London is a hospice for the terminally ill. Surrounded by green lawns and leafy trees, it seemed more like the small community hospital in my former Maine hometown than the large, forbidding Victorian structure I was attending for my cancer treatments. The center had kindly loaned the use of what they called the library (really just a large, open room with comfortable chairs and a couple of bookcases) to a newly formed cancer support group.
I arrived early for my first meeting—nervous, frightened and unsure of exactly what it was I was doing there. I had family and friends who loved me and who were being supportive. I had never had a problem sharing my thoughts and feelings with them, but I had read that support groups increase survival rates, so there I was. I was going to be a survivor, after all.
I was greeted, welcomed, offered a cup of tea (it is England, after all), and asked who I was, where I lived, where had I heard about them. Even with tea, my mouth was dry, and I struggled to answer.
“When were you diagnosed?” asked a Skinny Woman who seemed to be about my age.
“Last month,” I replied.
“When was your operation?” inquired Baldie with Big Earrings.
“Three weeks ago.”
A pause. Then, gently, from the Well-Dressed Matron in the corner, “What did they find?”
“Ten nodes positive,” I answered.
There was a longer pause. I was dealing with experts here, and we all knew that wasn’t good. Finally, from Baldie again, “How are you doing?”
“I’m feeling very positive,” I replied with practiced stoicism. “I’ll do whatever is necessary to get through this. I’m sure I’m going to make it. I’m strong. I’m fairly young. I’m a fighter. I’m going to be okay.” The words tumbled out, the same ones I spoke to my family, to my friends.
I looked around. Everyone smiled warmly and nodded encouragement. And none of them believed a word I said. Out of the silence, I plunged into the truth like a cold lake and came up sputtering.
“I don’t understand what’s happening to me. And sometimes, out of nowhere, like last night, I think the oddest stuff. I was sitting on my sofa, and I looked across my living room at my bookcase, jammed full of books and papers, and even more books and papers behind that. And the thought just popped into my head: I’d better clear that out. I sure don’t want my family to have to do it after I’m dead.” I came up for air.
I had admitted the unadmittable. No
matter how positive I felt, no matter how strong I tried to be, someplace, down deep, I knew I was going to die. Tears filled my eyes. Now was the time for a little pitying sentiment, surely. I deserved a hug or a reserved English pat on the arm, at the very least. Why else would I open my heart to a group of strangers with whom I had nothing in common?
Laughter and guffaws, shrieks and whoops washed over me. Stunned, my tears disappeared as quickly as they had formed.
“You should have been here last week,” choked out Baldie, the Journalist, through little hiccuping laughs. I stared at these crazy people.
The matron, Rosie, the Hampstead Barrister, chipped in, “I’d just moved back here from Singapore when I got my diagnosis, and, of course, I didn’t own a warm coat. But all I could think was what a waste of money it would be. I froze all that winter.”
“My thing was ‘travel size,’” chipped in Skinny Woman, Linda the Art Therapist from Crouch End. “I couldn’t bring myself to buy the economy size anything, so for two years, every time I went to the store, I bought little tiny packs and bottles of laundry detergent and dishwashing liquid and shampoo.”
Everyone had a story more ridiculous than the last. No one thought it odd that not only was I extremely positive I was going to live, but also certain I was going to die. And no one fell off her chair when I admitted it. This was my introduction to the patient-run, unconventional support group that was to become so important to me during my treatment and recovery.
There were other meetings less cheerful, others even more rowdy. Over the years, we lost members, both to cancer and back to their healthy lives. We held Christmas parties and birthday celebrations and memorials. But in those weeks and months of learning to live with breast cancer, I shared my journey with fellow travelers who understood my illness and my fears, and taught me to laugh at both.
At the first meeting I attended after I finished my treatment, one of my new friends presented me with a gift. You know, to this day, all these years later, I don’t think that I have ever seen such a large box of laundry detergent!
Chicken Soup for the Breast Cancer Survivor's Soul Page 7