Had I Known

by Joan Lunden

  I hated the thought of having to ask people to drive me to my chemo sessions and doctors’ appointments.

  I hated the thought of my friends and business partners feeling like they always had to reach out to see if I was okay.

  And I hated the thought of Jeff being deluged with questions about how I was doing in the middle of his busiest time of year.

  I wanted to scream from the highest mountain, “Hey, everybody, I will be okay, and in the meantime, I’m a little busy making sure that I’m going to be okay.”

  Okay?

  I know that might seem a little over the top, but it’s how I felt.

  And I know from so many of the letters and emails I got from other people that I wasn’t alone in this feeling.

  When you’ve lived as independently as I have for your entire life and you suddenly lose that freedom of choice, it challenges everything you know and understand about yourself. I wasn’t wallowing in self-pity or feeling bad about my disease. Quite the opposite: I wanted to ignore it. To stick my head in the sand and pretend it wasn’t there. But no one would let me do that. I was constantly reminded of its presence.

  Not by looking in the mirror and seeing my bald head.

  No. That would have been a harsh enough reminder.

  Not by my lack of usual boundless energy.

  Not by the chronic heartburn I hadn’t had since my last pregnancy, nearly thirty years ago.

  But by the daily reminders that would come from people being kind, being lovely, being thoughtful, being caring, and reaching out, simply wanting to know, “How are you?”

  I just wanted to be normal.

  I just wanted to live as I always had.

  But my normal had changed.

  I was the one who had to get used to that.

  This was my adjustment to make.

  Not theirs.

  Still, I wanted to put out a memo that simply stated: I’m fine!

  I’m going to be okay.

  And I will get through this.

  CHAPTER 8

  Good Morning America, I Have Cancer

  I’m stronger than I thought I was. My favorite phrase has been “This too shall pass.” I now understand it really well.

  ROBIN ROBERTS

  Cohost of Good Morning America, diagnosed with breast cancer in 2007

  My appearance on GMA was fast approaching. The reality of going public was creating an odd and unexpected pressure I hadn’t anticipated. It made everything feel like it was moving in even higher gear. The day before the show, Lindsay helped me compose an email that would go out to my many friends and family members so they wouldn’t feel sideswiped by the news of my illness. I wanted them to know what was happening before the rest of the world got wind of my diagnosis. There was so much going on all at the same time. Plus, chemo was already taking a toll on me. I was in such an emotional state. I couldn’t get my thoughts straight, and Lindsay knew my voice better than anyone.

  After covering many stories about breast cancer over the years, I was now going to be the cancer story. Since the moment I was hired as the cohost of Good Morning America, I have lived my life out in the open, sharing my many joys and, yes, my disappointments with the world. I have shared my pregnancies, my relationships, my weight gain and weight loss, and throughout the years, my ever evolving career.

  Yes, I have shared my entire journey.

  So it definitely didn’t feel right keeping this part of my journey a secret.

  There is another important reason why I felt it was absolutely necessary to share the journey with everyone. I thought about what my dad would say if he knew that I was going through cancer right now and wasn’t using my voice to inform and educate. I knew in my heart that he would expect me to use my journey—come what may—to inspire others to get screened for all types of cancers. Having operated on many cancer patients, he knew that early detection was crucial. I remember listening to him from the sidelines when my mother, brother, and I would accompany him to cancer conventions where he spoke about the complex nature of cancer surgery, extracting the deadly tumor while preserving the integrity of the patient’s body. I was very young at the time, and my mom probably didn’t even think I was listening, but I was. I was always in awe that he saved people’s lives. I remember him saying many times, “If only we had caught this sooner.”

  I considered myself extremely fortunate that my cancer was found in the early stages and my prognosis was so promising. I wanted everyone to know that breast cancer is not something to be ashamed of or something that we should feel is taboo to discuss. If I stood tall and spoke about my cancer, it would help others speak about theirs.

  Yes, I must share this story.

  Here’s an excerpt from my letter:

  I have already begun my chemotherapy and I have been blessed to have my husband, Jeff, and my three older daughters with me every step of the way. I am so thankful to have the support, wisdom, and guidance from all of my doctors and the loving support of my family and my friends. I know I have a challenge ahead of me in this journey; however, I have chosen to see it as an opportunity to fulfill my father’s legacy and try to inspire others to protect their health.

  I wanted to let you know that tomorrow I will be back on GMA, to make the announcement.

  When Lindsay and I finished putting the final touches on this very personal email that would go out early the next morning, we drove to New York City to spend the night at her apartment and eliminate the one-hour drive from Greenwich in the morning. Lindsay’s husband was away on business, so it would be fun having a “city sleepover” with my grown daughter.

  It had been several years since I’d lived in Manhattan. I’d forgotten how loud the sounds of the city can be at night. A fire engine racing down Sixth Avenue, just outside Lindsay’s eighth-floor window, at three A.M. was no longer something I could sleep through. Though I did get a little bit of shut-eye that night, I can’t say it was more than a few winks between tossing and turning.

  At five A.M. Emir arrived to do my hair and makeup. Perhaps for the last time . . . at least for a while. Boy, oh boy, that was a sobering thought. I sat in a chair for two hours and let him do his best to make me look like I’d actually gotten some sleep. Losing those dark circles under my eyes gets harder and harder as I get older.

  Does anyone else feel like this?

  Maybe it’s just the lighting in Lindsay’s apartment.

  Yeah, that’s it.

  Can I blame those on the chemo yet? I wondered.

  At seven-fifteen a black Town Car came to pick us up. Rolling through the city reminded me of my long stint at the early-morning show, except I rarely saw the city streets before dawn.

  I knew I would see lots of old buddies who still worked there, including cameramen, stage managers, bookers, and others who’d been around during the days I’d sat in the host seat, but this time I was there under rather unusual circumstances. I purposely hadn’t done hair and makeup there, because I’d known what would happen. All of my cohorts would stop by to say hi. On that particular morning, I was worried about any potential emotional exchanges. I wanted to be empowered and strong when I went on the air.

  My biggest fear was that I would get mushy and cry. NO! I will not do that, I kept saying over and over in my head. I needed to be strong for all of the women out there dealing with this disease.

  I needed to be a role model.

  I needed to be encouraging and inspiring for every woman who hadn’t yet been screened, or who had felt a lump and hadn’t gone to the doctor because she was afraid of the answer she might get.

  When the car pulled up to the studio, Patty Neger, a longtime friend who had been a booker at the show since before I started there, met me at the stage door. She knew about my cancer. I had shared the news with her the day I spoke with Robin, since she was the point person who would arrange my appearance without letting anyone know why I was coming on the program. Patty was the person who always booked the most prominent and bri
lliant doctors on GMA to discuss the latest news about cancer and other diseases. She knew all too well how serious this was.

  There are always a lot of fans waiting out in front of the Times Square studio entrance to see who gets out of the cars. As I walked into the studio, I heard a murmuring among the crowd: “That’s Joan Lunden.”

  Little did they know why I was there that early, humid summer morning.

  Although I’d had only one treatment, the chemo was already having an effect on my hair—it looked a little like I had walked through a sauna on my way to the studio. I felt like I didn’t look my best, but I had to get that out of my head. I was totally unnerved as I walked into the studio; it was like an out-of-body experience as staffers who knew me smiled and greeted me, unaware why I was there. It was such a relief when I caught sight of Jill Seigerman, one of my closest friends, who of course was one of the few who already knew why we were there and who had worked side by side with me for eight years at GMA. Jill had lived through a lot with me, including my final days at GMA, and she wanted to be right next to me that morning, knowing I might need some moral support. A few minutes later, we were joined by my daughter Jamie and my publicist, Stan Rosenfield. Stan has also been at my side for years, protecting me from the press (or at least trying to) through my divorce, my reentry into the dating world, remarrying, and having twins with the help of a surrogate. He’d been through the wringer with me, and we were both still standing. I was awfully glad to see him, though I wished it had been for a happier occasion.

  Emir applied his last-minute touch-ups, the soundman came in to mic me, and then I made my way down to the studio. Amy Robach, who read the news for GMA, immediately came over and gave me a hug; she had obviously been filled in, since she was going through the same thing. Her long hug was clearly from the heart and immediately put me at ease.

  Then I caught a glimpse of Robin, who was waiting for me on the set. She is an incredibly beautiful woman, inside and out. She exudes compassion and heartfelt warmth.

  Within seconds of me sitting down, we were on the air.

  There we were, two pros, doing what we do.

  Only this time, the tables were turned.

  The interviewer was now the interviewee.

  Three . . . two . . . one . . .

  Robin introduced me and asked that first question: “It’s said the people who stand by you are your family. And you all know and love Joan Lunden, longtime cohost of Good Morning America all those years with Charlie and Spencer. Well, she’s been a part of our extended family and always will be. She’s chosen to come here this morning to share something personal with all of us. It’s great to see you, Joni . . . What is it you want to share with me?”

  I think my voice broke a little when I began telling Robin and the viewers at home my truth. “I’ve covered many stories about cancer, but somehow I just never thought I’d hear those words that every woman fears and never wants to hear: ‘You’ve got breast cancer . . .’”

  I proceeded to tell her and the rest of America my story. Robin and I also spoke about the importance of self-breast exams, of getting regular yearly screenings, and of asking your doctor if you should be getting the ultrasound and other information.

  She then asked about my prognosis.

  I said, “Thankfully, I caught it early, it was only Stage Two, so the doctors feel that with chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation, I should beat it.” I explained that I had already begun my chemotherapy and how, ironically, she and I not only had the same kind of cancer, we had the same oncologist as well.

  You could hear a pin drop in that studio.

  Many of my former GMA colleagues had been in other production rooms when the interview began and had come out to the studio to give me a hug and say how sorry they were for me.

  Oh, shit.

  There it was.

  It had started, that dreaded “poor Joan” stuff I didn’t want from anyone. I could see it on everyone’s face, and there was nothing I could do about it. The proverbial cat was definitely out of the bag.

  Now everyone knew.

  CHAPTER 9

  #TEAMJOAN: An Unexpected Outpouring of Support

  Cancer didn’t bring me to my knees. It brought me to my feet.

  MICHAEL DOUGLAS

  Actor, diagnosed with throat cancer in 2010

  After I made my announcement on Good Morning America, you might have thought that I would take a big breath and exhale. After all, the truth shall set you free, right?

  Instead, I felt like I was holding my breath. What would be the public’s reaction?

  Would people think less of me?

  I didn’t want that.

  Would they feel sorry for me, the sick cancer patient?

  I definitely didn’t want that!

  Was I afraid of how they would react?

  Or was I afraid of how they may not react?

  Would they be supportive?

  Maybe no one would care at all.

  It had been a while since I’d connected with the GMA audience.

  When I’d last hosted the morning show, the Internet had been in its infancy. I had no idea the power or influence the Web could have with an announcement like the one I had just made.

  I hadn’t given a lot of thought to just how much our world had changed with the connectivity that came with social media until I got home from my epic day. That was the first time I checked social media to see what kind of response I’d gotten to going public with my news.

  Thousands of people were connecting with me to send their well wishes. Some were people I’d known through the years and had lost touch with, but mostly, they were people who watched me on GMA over the years. Not only were they connecting, but they were sharing their stories with me. Some of those stories were that they, too, had been battling cancer.

  When I was on Good Morning America, I was aware of the millions of Americans out there, but there was no real connection; they could call the network and write us letters, but they couldn’t talk back to us.

  Well, they sure could now!

  This life event—getting cancer and going public—brought me together with so many of those who used to be “on the other side of the camera,” and in a very kindred way, I loved it.

  I loved hearing from everyone, getting to hear each and every story, like that of Cindy G.

  I have known you (on TV) since the ’70s. Watched you every morning before college, then when feeding babies, then before work. It seems we are about the same age. Every time you went through a life-changing event, so did I! We were pregnant the same times, divorced the same times, looked for a place for Mom with you, and so my point is that I have a real connection with you.

  I live in Georgia (the Bible belt) and have many prayer warriors who join me in praying for your strength and healing. Hang in there, kiddo!

  Truly a Fan,

  Cindy G.

  What struck me most about Cindy’s message was how she felt like she knew me well, even though we had never met. I was hearing this sentiment in message after message, unlocking a door to reveal a huge party of friends through the power of the Internet. It was a new connection I could not only see but also hear. It had been eighteen years since I’d said goodbye to these morning friends, and I had missed them. I was so happy they had returned at this moment in my life.

  Just wanted to tell you that I am thinking about you! I am celebrating my one-year “cancerversary” today. I, too, was triple negative . . . stage 1b, one node involved. Had a double mastectomy, chemo, and radiation. You may never read this, but if you do, and I can help answer any questions, please ask away! Be strong and positive! You can do this . . . it’s a blip on the radar!!! Big hugs to you!!!

  Cathy W.

  Joan—

  I saw your interview with Robin Roberts this morning and just wanted to send a quick note to wish you well through your breast cancer journey and thank you for taking your story public, even though I’m sure it was a difficult decision at f
irst. I am a sixteen-year breast cancer survivor (trust me, you like people to tell you those things at the stage of the journey you are now!)—my children were thirteen and nine when we had to share the scary news. No doubt breast cancer affects every member of your family . . . and it is obvious you are blessed with an amazing support system. I have no doubt you will win this battle. And your story will impact so many in a positive way. Just remember to breathe and pamper yourself regularly! My good thoughts and prayers will be with you (along with thousands of caring friends and fans of yours around the world). My wish for you is a speedy, successful passage through the surgeries and treatments—and that you “get to the other side” of this nasty thing called cancer very quickly. All the best to you and your family,

  Judy S.

  Here is a message from Kathy Jackoway, who was my assistant at Good Morning America in the mid-eighties before moving to California to marry and have a family. She reached out to me on Facebook. I hadn’t heard from her in years.

  * * *

  Hi Joan,

  I am so sorry to hear the news. You are so strong and positive and I know you will be okay. I had a double mastectomy in January. I tested positive for BRCA2 after my sister was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer. I had planned prophylactic surgery, but as it turned out, my pre-surgical testing showed that I already had breast cancer . . . Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of you and sending you lots of positive thoughts and prayers.

  xoxo

  Kathy

  * * *

  After reading the messages flooding in on social media and emails to my website, I started to realize that there was quite a sisterhood among women battling breast cancer and breast cancer survivors out there. If I wanted to, I could turn to a lot of groups for advice and support. That was comforting to know so early in the game, especially for someone like me, who loves gathering information.

  * * *

  Dear Joan,

  I know we will probably never meet. I want you to know how much it meant to me when you accepted me as a friend on Facebook. My son Kevin had just been released from intensive care with a diagnosis of Addison’s disease. He had been diagnosed at age twenty-one months with diabetes and I thought this new disease was beyond unfair. Then somehow I saw you on Facebook and you accepted me as a friend and for reasons I can’t explain, my outlook on life improved. I went from beyond devastated to cautiously optimistic. You reached out to someone not knowing how much it could possibly mean. Now I would like to do the same for you. I am going to keep you in my daily prayers and ask God to heal you completely. I have a friend who is a priest and my dear departed aunt was a nun for seventy years. We are going to storm heaven with prayers. So take care, my dear friend, and fight the good fight and leave the praying to others.