My Cancer Companion

Seven is considered a lucky, perhaps sacred number. After my breast cancer diagnosis it was the number of years I imagined my survival to be. I am now fourteen years beyond diagnosis, an unexpected double blessing.

I have moved past the initial fear and panic, rush to cure, into an intimate cellular and emotional relationship with my cancer. It is now ownership, not victimization. Paradoxically I oppose and embrace it. It IS me, but I am more than it.

I have indeed met the enemy. It took away my breast, financial stability, vocation and “pseudo-sense of control”. It dramatically brought me into death’s lobby three times in five years. It destroyed any remnants of superficiality. Shopping and acquisition no longer satisfy. Matters of essence and eternity have replaced them.

Cancer is the great distiller, centrifuging truth to the surface, discarding toxins and purifying a person.

In the beginning I felt mostly shame and embarrassment. In 1995 pink ribbon mentality was less developed. Surely I was some sort of “health criminal” who had violated healthy living laws, perhaps consuming too much ice cream or McDonald's cheeseburgers. As a baby boomer I had lived my young adulthood in the 50’s ethic of caring for others first and was not attuned to the later “self care” culture. I should have been more self disciplined and “ yoga…ish.” As a psychotherapist of many years I was familiar with professional literature blaming disease on stress. My brain was bombarded by shoulds and shame.

A personal issue for me was my Minnesota upbringing. Self-effacement and “invisibility” are valued traits along with stoic silent suffering. The breast cancer diagnosis shot large holes in my need for invisibility. To complicate matters I moved away from all familiar identity to a small town in west Texas to support my husband’s executive position at a university. I arrived months after him as a balding post-mastectomy patient. Who was I? Who did they think I was? I left behind my breast, my home, my older teen-aged children, my job, my car, put my geriatric Shetland sheep dog to sleep and moved into an isolated rental house on the road to the prison. I knew no one.

Just as I later learned as a new widow, people don’t know how to “be” with those who are attacked by life’s bullets. Some avoid, some over attend and invalidize you. For someone who was always the “helper” the glaring status of cancer patient was uncomfortable and invasive.

I decided that loss of a breast seemed to mean the loss of your brain, your value, or your dependability. Others hesitated to make requests, overprotected you, and did not always include you. Such doubtful approaches leveled my self esteem which on some days already had a hard time standing alone.

Some well-meaning folks seemed fearful that cancer was contagious. Some interrogated you about your history and life habits hoping that they may be spared if theirs were different than yours. Some brought “cure” books sporting simple rules to recovery. They purported consuming algae and brown rice while you could barely keep water down after chemotherapy. Such simplicity seemed to calm their anxiety. It only made me feel my “wrongness”.

Even professional interaction could inflict wounds. My first oncologist never wore a smile and seemed more interested in her designer wardrobe than in me. One day she curtly commented that “at least I had something they could treat”. I did not know if I should apologize and internalized the comment that I was not even an adequate cancer patient. Fortunately I was allowed to meet more compassionate providers along the way.

Phase Two

My cancer resembles an Oreo cookie, beginning with its dark crumbly foundation. In the middle years it was filled with a sweet creamy center. For 9 years I only experienced cancer in anticipation of annual exams and possibly threatening outcomes. I rebuilt my life and work and experienced loving friends, children and grandchildren. Reality did continue its attack as I lost my husband and both parents and 3 beloved dogs within several years. The early cancer years had taught me critical survival lessons that held me in good stead during this grief and recovery process.

Suddenly one Sunday in January life slammed the dark top cookie over the sweet filling. My 105 degree fever and revelation of dreaded cancer recurrence attacking my colon hit me like a bomb. I was just one year away from no longer having to pay outrageously expensive high risk health insurance premiums. More important, I was no longer a poster child. This represented serious failure on my part. Over 5 months I experienced major colon surgery, chemotherapy and respiratory side effects from the chemo resulting in hospitalization for a month and ventilator dependence for 2 weeks. During the next 4 months I did rehab exercise and was tethered to home oxygen.

I never returned to the job, home and lifestyle I had just created in a small mid-Texas town and moved overnight to live near a major cancer treatment facility where my daughter lived. Through its personal and integrated services my outpatient recovery progressed. My rehab doctor poignantly reminded me that “you can’t hurry slow” and rehab is slow. Again, the question of who am I?

Phase Three

Fast forward several years. Life was good. Breathing freely was wonderful. I had sat down on a nail and getting up felt so very good. I still kept grieving all I had lost and whom I had been and imagined recreating it until……………I realized that we must let go of the life we planned in order to accept the life we have.

I obsessed over worthless thoughts such as wondering if I had time to finish tasks or fulfill dreams. Now that I had returned from death’s door twice this kind of preservation versus production mentality haunted me.

I had always felt abnormal, isolated, and bad in this life/death cancer dilemma until one day the light bulb turned on. I am just living the human dilemma common to us all. I might be more conscious of death lurking around the corner, but all of us live on that street. We live in a conspiracy of silence and denial. We act shocked (and of course saddened) when an acquaintance or loved one dies. Look at the evidence. We have no exceptions to this rule. Not to live in despair or doom we must look at truth head-on to really live. One of the strongest human fears is that of uncertainty. It can shrink in the evidence of certainty. We know what that certainty is about life. The body always betrays us. We must be attached to more than our physical body to be a survivor. We must inhabit our spirit and our mind. This is transendence. For me it is God’s grace granting me the faith to have purpose and comfort.

Phase Four

Okay. Back to the Oreo cookie analogy . Interesting that during this time Oreo came out with “double stuff” cookies. Just after my second cream filling came another black cookie layer! Because the cancer had spread we moved from hormone therapy to another big chemo weapon. Yes, this ammo again inflamed my lungs and resulted in another ventilator dependent icu stay only this time it was during a vacation to another state. What I learned………….strangers did not understand me and my condition as well as my primary oncologist. Because they did not know me they were encouraging my family to let me die. I am a believer in advance directives, but God told me in that ER very strongly that it was not right for me to execute that decision at that time.

Again, a 3 week stay and a 5 month rehab taught me patience. This time I really surrendered to accepting life as it came to me and the journey has been blessed. Friends, strangers, grandchildren, events have encircled me and sustained me to my core. I see that I have never needed anything I wasn’t provided although the grace frequently came at a different time and in a different form than I anticipated.

In January of this year I had a 3rd such episode and emerged from the ventilator realizing that we had taken enough risks from chemo and were now on our own.

I live in the spirit of love, faith and God’s grace dispensed to me. We all do and when you doubt just experience His gentle hand on your shoulder, love in the faces around you and receive hope. God is preparing a place for me and I hope that I am preparing for Him.