Had I Known

by Joan Lunden

  I failed.

  “It’s okay. You’re feeling it today. Don’t worry,” Dr. Hollister said in a very loving and kind way.

  He went on to explain that my white blood cell count was good, but my hemoglobin and hematocrit were low. I was testing anemic. He didn’t want me to do another transfusion. He preferred trying to build my strength back up through nutrition and supplements. He also reassured me that being anemic and run down from eight weeks of AC treatment would make me unusually teary and physically and emotionally worn down to the nub. He didn’t want me to be embarrassed by how I was feeling.

  “Think of this as the New Deal. Most people know that Roosevelt created the New Deal, but they don’t know what it was or why it was called the New Deal. Everyone was physically and emotionally worn down from the war and didn’t have enough money to do things or find jobs. Roosevelt created programs to put everyone back to work so they could put food on their tables and a roof over their heads. The reason they called it the New Deal was because he felt he was reshuffling the deck and handing everyone a new set of cards. They could take the cards from the new deal and do as much as they could with each one.”

  Then Dr. Hollister got very serious. He looked me right in the eyes and said, “Joan, you can’t help the hand you are dealt, but you have the ability to play the right hand. You got dealt a hand that happened to have breast cancer in it, but you have played the hand as well as anyone could have possibly played it. You had every single one of your treatments. You had the latest, greatest, best medicine known to the medical community to treat your cancer. You took every one of your treatments right to the schedule, which very few people pull off, and the more you do that, the better your chances are for less recurrence. And now you’ve done this eight-week round of AC right on schedule, and I am sure you are going to do your radiation the same way. You have done everything right. You have a very aggressive form of cancer, and the chances of recurrence are much higher than others’. I am sure you know that. This has likely put fear into your head. I look at you and I say statistically, and not just statistics but my nose, and I have a good nose for this, you are cured. This is not to say I don’t want you to do your six weeks of radiation, because I do, but in my opinion, I believe you’ve done it.”

  Hearing him say those three words—“You . . . are . . . cured”—meant so much to me.

  A big part of my fear that day, which I didn’t convey, was recurrence. As soon as you stop fighting the cancer in your body, all that’s left to think about is whether one little cancer cell somewhere, somehow, slipped through. Was there one little cell waiting to show up or grow its own little blood vessels and become a tumor?

  Fear had become my enemy.

  I had to see it for what it really was in that moment: False . . . Evidence . . . Appearing . . . Real.

  I needed to knock FEAR out of my thoughts.

  I also needed to accept that if, for whatever reason, Dr. Hollister was wrong and my cancer came back, I would take care of it.

  I wouldn’t cave.

  I wouldn’t give in.

  I wouldn’t say, “That’s it. I quit.”

  I’d fight, just like I fought this time around.

  And if cancer came knocking on my door yet again, I’d kick cancer’s ass all over.

  I didn’t need to live in fear or crumble under my angst.

  The truth is, no one knows what the future holds.

  All we can do is live in the here and now and walk our path one step at a time.

  I felt so much better after my talk with Dr. Hollister.

  It felt good to let my feelings out; to let it all go.

  It was a really healthy thing to do.

  It was like writing a new chapter in my book of life.

  In a way, it released me.

  By the time I got into the room to have my final infusion, I had no more makeup left on my face, and I was completely wiped out. Jeff, Lindsay, Sarah, and George’s mom, Rita, were all waiting for me.

  “What took you so long?” someone asked.

  I simply didn’t have the interest, strength, or energy to answer.

  During my last infusion, I posted a photo on Facebook with the short message: My last chemo, I can’t believe it’s over.

  When all was said and done, the nurses gathered around and gave me gifts and cards, congratulating me on my triumph.

  I didn’t feel like a victor, though I did my best to smile and take it all in, thanking everyone for their love, guidance, and support throughout those eight horrific weeks. The work that those nurses do—that all nurses do—the compassion, the care, and the drive that gets them out of bed each morning is awe-inspiring. They face death every day. They deal with cancer every day. They deal with chronic illness every day. They are the true victors in this story: the real heroes to be celebrated.

  Much to my surprise, later that day Sarah called to say that my eight-word Facebook post had received an amazing reaction! By seven P.M., the post had reached 1,104,384 people and been liked by almost 80,000. Nearly 4,000 well-wishers had left wonderful comments.

  When I saw the amazing response on social media, it truly took my breath away.

  But it didn’t stop there.

  The numbers kept going up and up and up.

  A few days later, my post had reached almost 8 million people. It had been liked by almost 800,000, and 18,629 comments had been left, mostly messages of encouragement that came in many forms.

  That boggled my mind for many reasons, but mostly because I could hardly comprehend that so many people cared. I know I’ve said this before, but my journey was ongoing. And yet people kept up with it. That was amazing to me. I was heartened to post something that elicited so many warm, encouraging, thoughtful comments from so many, but especially from millions of people I didn’t know. Not only did it boost my mood, but it boosted my faith in humanity. Above all, it gave me great hope for the future.

  This journey has been nothing short of extraordinary for me. While it has been a roller coaster full of twists and turns that were both highly emotionally charged and exhausting, I must say it was made much more palatable when I saw some of the responses to my “it’s over” post.

  Why?

  It confirmed that I was moving toward a more meaningful and purposeful life that was inspiring others on a deeper level.

  By the time I awoke the next day, I was feeling relieved—like a boulder had been lifted off my shoulders. I was feeling better physically, too. I quickly rolled over in bed to check Facebook for more messages.

  I was shocked to be greeted by five thousand new comments, one of which was from a forty-year cancer survivor who wrote, Thank God. Live each day as a gift from above. LIVE—LAUGH—LOVE.

  What a wonderful way to greet the brand-new day.

  And a new day it was, indeed.

  CHAPTER 29

  Unbroken

  I do not feel any less of a woman. I feel empowered that I made a strong choice that in no way diminishes my femininity.

  ANGELINA JOLIE

  Actress, filmmaker, humanitarian,

  tested positive for BRCA 1 in 2013

  After being on maternity leave for three months, Lindsay officially came back to work in early December. Sarah had done a fantastic job filling in for her sister and really helped save the day in her absence.

  I don’t think any of us anticipated the impact my breast cancer was going to have on my office. I wasn’t physically in the office all summer. To be fair, that wasn’t unusual, since I usually spend the summers in Maine, but I had not been interfacing with them like I normally did. Once I’d returned to Connecticut in the last week of August, I hadn’t gone back to my usual working schedule. I’d been mostly phoning it in from home. Meanwhile, Elaine, my personal assistant who was in charge of every event and appearance, was juggling my schedule from the office. She was helping me assess what I could still do during my treatments, and she made sure to keep in touch with every speakers’ bureau, so
that when my treatment was over, they would know I was ready to go full speed ahead. Both of us were somewhat surprised by the number of requests I had received to speak at various cancer events around the country. It was wonderful but also challenging to decide how many I could agree to do, especially in the midst of my treatments. Thankfully, Elaine was extremely diligent about every detail expected of me, so we could digest the plethora of offers and make decisions without jeopardizing my health.

  By the end of the year, I wanted everyone in my office to fully understand what I’d agreed to do in the coming year and how 2015 would be unfolding. Many of the speeches would be based on my breast cancer journey, which I found exciting and was looking forward to sharing with others in both cancer research and similar situations.

  I will admit that it felt good being back in the office. It was so natural and comfortable having the whole team back together for the day.

  Secretly, I couldn’t wait to get all the toxic chemicals out of my system so I could shake the lousy side effects I’d been feeling. I’d had a constant runny nose, a hacking cough (which I’d discovered was from the Cytoxan—the “C” in my AC chemo), and the inside of my mouth was still terribly sore. I’d also made an appointment the following week to finally have my chest port removed. I just wanted that thing out of me. It was one more reminder that screamed “CANCER PATIENT” every time I looked down at it.

  For a couple of weeks, whenever I turned on the television, I’d catch glimpses of the trailer for the new movie Unbroken, directed by Angelina Jolie. Whenever I heard the line “If you can take it, you can make it,” it resonated deep within me. It summed up exactly how I had been feeling for months. As luck would have it, Jeff and I were invited to a private screening of the film in New York. Just as the movie begins, the single word “Unbroken” appears on the screen. When he saw it, Jeff slipped his arms around me in the darkened theater and whispered sweetly into my ear, “That’s you, baby, unbroken.”

  After the showing, we were invited to the Porter House Restaurant in Manhattan for a private reception where Angelina Jolie was expected to attend. I wasn’t sure we would get to see Angelina Jolie, let alone have a chance to speak with her. However, as we made our way through the restaurant, all of a sudden Angelina appeared before me. She is absolutely breathtaking, lovely and truly gracious. I was compelled to approach her. Not because she is a movie star but because I admire her bravery in coming forward with her story and telling the world about the BRCA 1 gene. She exposed her battle and, I am sure, saved many lives in the process. When we met, we spoke about the film but also about breast cancer. Although our journeys have taken us along different paths, we found that we had much in common. We also swapped stories about having so many kids.

  Jeff said to her, “What’s another couple of hot dogs on the grill?”

  She said, “That’s what Brad always says!”

  Jeff and I talked about this exchange for days.

  I thought I had been doing better, feeling well, but a few days later, I was stunned to awaken feeling horrible. It was, without a doubt, my worst day since starting chemo. I ached all over. While I would love to say it felt like a terrible case of the flu, it was so much worse. I spent the entire day in bed, sleeping, trying to make my angst pass. By midafternoon my temperature had spiked to 101. I needed to call my oncologist. That was the rule—if my temperature reached 101, I had two choices: I went to the ER or I called the oncologist.

  Dr. Hollister was in San Antonio at a breast cancer conference so I spoke with another oncologist who was on call, whom I’d never met. She prescribed an antibiotic to protect me, since my white blood cells couldn’t. She reminded me to take Tylenol to help bring my temp down. If I didn’t improve, I would need to go to the ER. I was completely listless. I had no energy.

  Although my temperature dropped, my condition continued for the next several days. I couldn’t get out of bed. When I finally did, I was dragging, big-time. These were unlike any days I’d had. I was moving at a pace that was unrecognizable. My older daughters had gathered around me, but I wasn’t engaging. They would give me something work-related, and I would become so overwhelmed by the prospect of having to make a decision that it reduced me to tears.

  There was no way I could go in to have my port removed, as scheduled. I was too weak and sick. My doctor wanted me to get a chest X-ray to make sure my hacking cough wasn’t turning into pneumonia. They also wanted a complete blood test to see what was going on.

  Thankfully, the chest X-ray was clear, but my blood results showed that my white blood cell count was astonishingly low: 0.6! My hemoglobin and my platelets were also really low.

  These numbers put everyone in alarm mode.

  The cumulative effects of my chemo had finally caught up with me.

  Did I need another blood transfusion?

  I was really scared.

  I just felt so physically vulnerable. My doctors were stressing the importance of staying hydrated, especially with a fever. Everyone was telling me this, but water tasted so bad to me, like metal. I also had no real taste for anything, so nothing sounded remotely good to eat or drink.

  These were, by far, my darkest days. All I wanted was some relief.

  After a couple more days of feeling downright awful, I called Dr. Oratz, whom I considered my cancer quarterback. She said, “You don’t have to feel this lousy. We can help you. We are going to give you intravenous fluids, a blood transfusion, and then a shot that is one of the complementary treatments to chemo that helps make more white blood cells.” While this meant my port would be staying in for a while, I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel better.

  After the fluids, transfusion, and shot, I began feeling normal. I couldn’t believe the difference in how I felt after being so sick. I actually felt human again. What a difference the blood transfusion made!

  As the holidays were approaching, Jeff and I were preparing to take our family to California for two weeks of some much-needed rest and relaxation. We had rented a home in La Quinta, near Palm Springs. I was really looking forward to having some time in the warm sun. Unfortunately, the normally warm desert was experiencing a fluke cold spell. So much for global warming!

  I was still experiencing such extreme fatigue that I spent most of the week in a relaxing recliner inside the house, playing Scrabble with Sarah and her friend Stacy and watching reruns of NCIS. I’d planned to catch up on my reading, but I was still finding it difficult to focus on and stay with a book for any length of time. I was beginning to wonder if I just needed a better or more intriguing book, or was the fatigue still that overwhelming?

  Palm Springs proved to be a difficult trip for me. No matter how hard I tried to be outside and playful, I was always freezing cold and perpetually exhausted. I just couldn’t seem to catch a break. However, Kate and Max and Kim and Jack managed to take advantage of the desert vacation. Jeff had also invited his parents and his sister, Karen, who has three children, Kenny, Keith, and Kendall, who are similar ages to our kids. We had a full house!

  The kids took a few intrepid dips in the pool when the sun poked out, and they played football incessantly in the enormous backyard. I was happy that they were having fun—that is, until one evening, when they were playing “two-hand touch” football. My youngest son, Jack, was running fast to catch a long pass. Looking over his shoulder at the ball and not where he was going, he ran smack into a palm tree, leaving a nasty bruise and a huge bump on his temple. Jeff and I rushed him to a local emergency care center. After sitting for close to an hour in the waiting room, I ended up having to wait in the car after a baby threw up next to me. Our first thought was “And what is that baby here for? Hopefully nothing contagious!” The last thing I needed in my already weakened immune state was to contract some other illness. Needless to say, it wasn’t the vacation I was hoping for, but I did my best to hang in there and be present for my family.

  Truthfully, I was anxious to get back to Connecticut and start my radiation t
reatments. As soon as I could do that, I would feel closer to being cured.

  My required dose of radiation called for treatment every Monday through Friday for six weeks. At the outset, that seemed like such a long time and a very big commitment, but there are no shortcuts in the battle against cancer. I was willing to do whatever it took to get to the finish line.

  By the middle of February, I had crossed that finish line—or had I? I had finished the last day of my five-week regimen of photon radiation, during which they shot radioactive beams through my boobs. My right breast was deep bright red, as if I’d gotten dropped on a desert island wearing a wet suit that covered my whole body except my right boob, which was exposed to the bright island sun day after day. My breast was inflamed and tender to the touch. Some spots were flirting with parting and becoming open sores. I was slathering on thick skin cream made especially for burns four or five times a day for relief, then covering the wounds with bandages.

  I had one last five-day regimen of “electron radiation” to go. I would be lying on my back for this round, with my arm up over my head. It was bittersweet to be ending in the same position I’d started. I’d gotten over being embarrassed about all of the technicians, male and female, walking around looking at my exposed boob, making sure it was in just the right position for the beam to penetrate down to the cavity where the tumors used to be.

  Gosh, that felt really good to say.

  CHAPTER 30

  Had I Known

  The goal is to live a full productive life, even with all that ambiguity. No matter what happens, whether the cancer never flares up again or whether you die, the important thing is the days that you have had, you will have lived.

  GILDA RADNER

  Comedian, diagnosed with ovarian cancer in 1986

  When I first heard the words “You have cancer,” deep down, I knew exactly what that meant.

  It meant CANCER: the BIG “C.”

  It also meant this was the real deal, and yes, I could die from it.