“What are the results, doctor?” I asked, shocked.
“It’s malignant and I’m removing your breast a week from today.” Bob’s hand went to my shoulder and the tears began to fall.
I said, “Doctor, do you think maybe you could give me something to calm me down until the surgery?”
Coldly, he said, “Sorry, I don’t believe in taking pills to mask your feelings. You’re going to have to learn to get along without it anyway, and you may as well start now.”
The four of us left the hospital in silence. Bob held my hand as my mother and father wept. We drove to my mother’s house in Brooklyn where my brothers and sister were waiting for the outcome.
My sister, Karen, took the news worst of all. Everyone cried but had accepted the fact. She was unable to. “They made a mistake,” she said, running away from me. I followed her from room to room, grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “Every doctor didn’t make a mistake and every test is not wrong. You’ve been running away from this for a week and it’s time you stopped running. I have cancer!” With this, her legs buckled and she started sobbing uncontrollably as I held her and tried to comfort her. I always considered myself a weak person, unable to deal with any kind of crisis. I was certainly not the one to give strength to others. It was at this point, however, that I realized I had to be strong because everyone was looking to me for their cues. As long as I didn’t let myself cry, they would be afraid to cry in front of me. We learned to use the nights and our times alone to cry. In the daylight, and for each other, we would all be strong.
Bob and I went home. I told the kids—Scott, 16; Adam, 14; and Corinne, 7—that I needed an operation but would be fine. How do you discuss removing a breast with your sons and daughter?
That night I felt an overwhelming need to get my affairs in order so I straightened out my closet. I didn’t want anyone else to have to clean up my life. All those special cards, pressed flowers and mementos that would mean nothing to anyone but me were put into the garbage. When it was time for bed, Bob held me as I lay silently weeping. I reached up to touch his face and realized that I wasn’t the only person crying that night. Our fears were confirmed.
The night passed. The sun rose the next day as usual. The kids got ready for school. Bob and I dressed for work. Before I left the house, I got a call from Jeff, my ex-husband. He told me about an article in Good Housekeeping that listed the best breast cancer surgeons in the country. It included a female doctor, Alison Goldfarb, who was affiliated with Mt. Sinai Hospital near our home. After my experience with Dr. Johnson, Jeff suggested that maybe a woman would have more compassion in this type of surgery. Later that day, I called Dr. Goldfarb and made an appointment the next day for a second opinion.
My mother and sister went with me to Dr. Goldfarb’s office and came after my examination into the consultation room. Dr. Goldfarb said she wanted me to have a reconstruction done immediately after the surgery, as I was still a young woman. My entire body shook. I cried tears of joy. She was the only doctor who held out any hope or spoke of the future to me—the only one who made me feel like I was going to live. I asked her to be my doctor.
Dr. Goldfarb smiled warmly and quickly got me an appointment with a reconstructive surgeon, Dr. Skolnik. He showed us slides of different breasts, all shapes and sizes. There were women who had reconstruction with and without nipples. We couldn’t see the women’s faces, only their disfigured breasts. “That doesn’t look so bad, right?” I said, to my mother who was sitting behind me. I turned to her for confirmation. She looked horrified, an image that was a direct reflection of my own feelings. Being in the room together prevented us from falling apart. We tried hard to be brave for each other.
After hearing of the different options for reconstruction, I chose the procedure with the least amount of surgery. It involved placing a balloon under my skin and filling it with saline solution. The skin would stretch around the balloon and form a breast. The nipple would be added later. An appointment was set up for me to take pictures for the “before” shots. I was told to remove my necklace so I could not be identified. I, too, would be one of the faceless women in the slides.
My surgery was now two weeks away. I was torn between wanting the time to fly by and wanting it to stop where it was. There were so many things I needed to handle before then.
One of the details I had to take care of was telling Mr. Russo, the principal of the school where I worked, what was happening. I was very nervous about losing a full-time job that I had received just one month before. I had been a substitute in the school, working on a day-to-day basis, and was given the opportunity for a full-time job when one of the teachers had to take the rest of the year off. I promised the principal that I would be there every day without fail. Now I had to tell him that I had cancer and would need a month off.
Nervously, I approached Mr. Russo, choking back tears, and told him of my situation. His response touches me to this day. “Don’t cry, there is nothing more important than your health,” he said. “You take as long as you need. I’ll get a substitute to cover your class. When you feel up to coming back, it will be waiting for you.” I still can’t believe he got a substitute to cover for a substitute.
I also needed to prepare for my hospital stay. My mother and sister took me shopping for nightgowns and a robe. They spared no expense. Anything that I wanted or felt good in was mine. Walking through the store, I overheard a woman commenting to her companion about the high price of a dress. “I’d only pay that price for a dress if I were dying of cancer,” she said. “Then I wouldn’t have to worry about getting the bill.” My mother’s face was sheet white.
I said, “Mom, I heard what they said. It’s okay. They couldn’t know.”
After school on Friday, I had to go to the hospital for pre-op testing. There were blood tests, urine tests, a cardiogram and a chest X ray to be taken. Fear gripped me as I was called in to take the chest X ray. What if it’s in my lungs, too? I thought. I started to shake so uncontrollably that blankets were put around me. I played a mind game with myself. If they didn’t have to redo the X ray, then there was nothing wrong. But then, they didn’t have to redo my mammography.
As my surgery grew closer, we all went through the motions and carried on with our daily routines as best we could. For me, showers were the hardest. Each day I was forced to wash and touch this thing that might be taking my life. I would stand frozen as the water mixed with my salty tears. When I was finally cried-out, I would stand in front of the mirror to dry myself and start over. It was part of me. When it was time to leave the bathroom, I had to paint on a smile and act as if nothing was wrong. I couldn’t let my children know the fear I felt inside.
Bob bore the brunt of my feelings. He was my release, my savior. Bob was the one I snapped at and took my frustrations out on. He knew I was a walking time bomb ready to explode. I needed someone to tell my fears to.
On Monday morning, I received an urgent message: “Call Dr. Goldfarb immediately, very important.” The room swayed, and I felt everything going black. Something was wrong with my tests. They found something else. I just knew it.
As it turned out, nothing was wrong with the tests. Due to a cancellation, Dr. Goldfarb had an opening in her surgical schedule the next morning at nine o’clock—a week ahead of my scheduled surgery.
“Trust me, Eileen, this is a blessing in disguise for you,” said Dr. Goldfarb. “Next week at this time, it will all be behind you.”
“I can’t do it. I just can’t. I don’t have slippers. I’m not ready. Dear God, I’m not ready!”
“Eileen, you don’t need slippers. You can have the surgery, then we’ll get your slippers. Please listen to me and save yourself a lot of grief. I’ll meet you at the hospital at 7:00.” I agreed and then called Bob and my mother to let them know what was happening.
I drove home from school in a daze. I kept myself as busy as I could until Bob got home. I vacuumed, dusted, packed my overnight bag, washed and s
et my hair, shaved my legs and cried.
I didn’t get many phone calls that night because everyone was afraid to talk to me. They didn’t know what to say or how to say it. I told Adam and Corinne that I had to take more tests in the city and that Aunt Shelley would pick them up after school.
Through the night, Bob held me and reassured me that nothing would change for him as long as he still had me. He said he loved all of me, not just one part. He told me that I was beautiful on the inside as well as on the outside, and no operation could ever change that. No matter what Bob said, I still felt as though I was short-changing him. He deserved a whole woman, one with two breasts. We clung to each other that night, each of us getting and giving support at the same time. I knew that no matter what happened the next day, my family would be there for me. Their love was truly unconditional.
When the sun rose the next morning, Bob and I got dressed in silence. We were afraid to speak because the kids were getting ready for school. The ride to the hospital was tense and silent. We didn’t know what to say. Bob was driving the speed limit, but it felt like we got there much too soon. I needed more time. I wasn’t ready. Would I ever be ready?
We parked the car and went inside. My mother, father, sister and Aunt Florence were already there; they were afraid of missing me before I had to go upstairs. We all kissed and held each other. Nobody wanted to be the first to cry or let go. The only words spoken were “I love you.”
I was taken into a room to change and put on a gown, and an I.V. was started. I sat on the bed and tried to make idle talk with my mother and aunt. I couldn’t hear what was being said to me. The loud beating of my heart drowned out everything. I was allowed to wait with my family in the sitting room until an orderly was sent to get me.
At 8:45 a gurney arrived; it was time. We all kissed and clung to each other. My God, they can open me up and find that the cancer has spread, I thought. The doctor let Mom and Bob go upstairs with me. I clung to their hands; they were my lifeline but I had to let go. I had been brave and strong up until this point, but now, in the upstairs pre-op area, I felt the weight of the last weeks. God, how I didn’t want to let go of my mother’s hand. She would take care of me. All that would come out of my lips was “I’m scared!” The tears began to fall and at that moment I knew the real meaning of fear. Mom and Bob both kissed me and told me how much they loved me. Bob put his arm around my mother to support her. It made me feel better to know they were there for each other.
We were only upstairs in the holding area for about five minutes when they were told they had to leave. I thought, Please don’t leave me here, I feel so alone. Oh, God, I’m on my own now. I can still get off the gurney and run. But where can I run to? My legs are paralyzed. My whole body is paralyzed with fear. The lights blinded me as I was wheeled into the operating room.
Dr. Goldfarb came to my side and took my hand. “I’m right here with you, Eileen. I’m just moving around to the other side.” I closed my eyes and thought, Don’t take the wrong one.
God was good to me. I slept peacefully. My surgery was much longer than anticipated and lasted until five that evening, but it went very well. Eleven lymph nodes were removed and luckily the cancer had not metastasized.
The first person I saw after the operation was my sister, Karen. God, how her smile lit up the whole floor. She called to the rest of the family, “She’s here. She’s here. Hurry.” As she ran to my side, Karen looked down at me and said, “You’re beautiful. You look so beautiful.” To this day, I have never or will never feel as beautiful as I did at that moment. I looked in her eyes and I knew that’s how she saw me.
I got so many flowers and cards during my stay in the hospital that staff and patients thought I was someone famous or important. They were right. I was very important to a lot of people.
I had my mastectomy on Tuesday morning, left the hospital Saturday morning, and went right to the beauty parlor to have my hair done. After all, I had a birthday party to go to on Sunday. I started chemo two weeks after my operation, and I never missed a day of school during that time. It wasn’t easy. I lost my hair. I threw up and felt sick. I had many times when I felt full of self-pity and said, “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t finish the chemo.” I remember one day crying on the phone to my mother. “What happens if after going through all of this, it comes back?”
My mother replied, “Your children need you. You’ll do whatever you have to do to be with them.” She was right. Not only did my children need me—I needed them, too. They gave me the strength to fight and go on. I had a very good life and I wasn’t ready to cash in my chips yet. I want to see my children go to college, get married and have families of their own. I want to grow old with my husband. I love my life and I intend to be here for a long time and make the most of each day.
Eileen Brown O’Riley
“I must admit, Mr. Feldmond, I like your attitude!”
Reprinted with permission from Dave Carpenter.
* Dr. Johnson’s name has been changed to protect his identity.
A Pocket Full of Quarters
Searra, an eight-year-old brain tumor patient, was a “regular” in the Radiation Oncology Department, much like the other patients who came to the cancer center everyday for a five-or six-week period. With my office located near the main entrance, I could hear Searra, also called CC, coming from a distance.
Sure enough, she popped her head in every morning around 10:00 A.M. to say “hi” or, more important, to check out the toys and coloring materials I had stashed in my office. Several steps behind, CC’s grandmother, also called Mommie, since she served as her guardian, would trail in as she tried keeping up with CC’s anxious pace.
CC was not the least bit interested in hearing more about her cancer or her hair loss. When she walked into the department, it was time to socialize with the staff, who became her instant friends, and to see what kind of masterpiece she could color for Mommie before she was called back for her treatment.
I was taken aback by the love CC had for Mommie. Whenever I asked her about home life, school work or how she was feeling, every response referred to her time spent with Mommie, the funny stories they shared and how much she loved her. On numerous occasions, CC made it clear that Mommie was the center of her world.
When CC was first treated with radiation therapy, the therapists told her that they would give her a quarter each day if she promised to keep her head still on the treatment table. Certainly, after six weeks of therapy, she had a pocketful of quarters! So on the last day, the therapists wanted to know what big toy she was going to buy with all her change. CC replied, “Oh, I am not going to buy a toy. I am going to buy something for Mommie because of all the nice things she does for me.”
CC’s sincerity, unselfishness, warmth and loyalty to Mommie taught me about what is really important in life. She constantly showed that loving others with true commitment is the best gift you can give another—whether a family member or a friend. Certainly, CC has an excuse to complain or be angry at the world for a childhood totally different from the other children’s in her third-grade class. I have never heard her complain about her bald head, swollen face and body (as a result of the steroids), or low energy level, which keeps her from playing outside. CC continues to live her life the way she chooses, and that includes giving of herself to make the world a better place for others, especially Mommie.
CC reminds me to not take those people I love for granted and to look beyond the superficiality that is often found in day-to-day living. I am reminded to be more thankful for what I have today and to not dwell on what is behind me or what lies ahead. CC, just like many other cancer patients, is a true example that we aren’t always dealt the perfect hand, so we have to make the best of what we have today.
Anne C. Washburn
Manuel Garcia
Manuel Garcia, a proud youthful father
Was known on his block as a hardworking man.
With a wife and a family, a job and
a future
He had everything going according to plan.
One day Manuel Garcia, complaining of stomach pains
Went to the clinic to find the cause.
His body was found to have cancerous tissue
Ignoring the order of natural laws.
So Manuel Garcia of Milwaukee County
Checked into the medical complex in town.
Suddenly seeing his 39 years
Like the sand in an hourglass plummeting down.
“What are my choices?” cried Manuel Garcia.
“You’ve basically two,” was the doctor’s decree.
“Your cancer untreated will quickly be fatal,
But treatment is painful with no guarantees....”
And so it began, Manuel’s personal odyssey—
Long sleepless nights in a chemical daze
With echoes of footsteps down long lonely corridors
Tolling his minutes and hours away.
With the knowledge that something inside was consuming him
Manuel Garcia was filled with despair.
He’d already lost 40 pounds to the cancer,
And now to the drugs he was losing his hair.
After nine weeks in treatment the doctor came calling,
Said, “Manuel, we’ve done about all we can do.
Your cancer could go either way at this juncture;
It’s out of our hands and it’s now up to you.”
He looked in the mirror, a sad frightened stranger
So pale, so wrinkled, so lonely, so scared.
Diseased, isolated, and feeling unlovable—
One-hundred-twenty-six pounds and no hair.
He dreamed of his Carmen at 60 without him,
His four little children not having their Dad,
Of Thursday night card games at Julio’s,
And everything else he’d not done that he wished that he had.