As my treatment progressed, that rope was often at hand. It was there during my chemotherapy when my husband said, “Lean on me. I’ll be here to give you strength. If you can’t go on, I’ll carry you until you’re strong enough to continue on your own.”
It was there the day of my surgery when a dear friend hung a silk carp, the Japanese symbol of courage, in my hospital room. It was there on Mother’s Day when, unsure of what lay ahead, my daughter gave me an opal, the symbol of hope. And it was there one night after I had lost my hair, when I found fifty cents under my pillow with a note from the “hair fairy.”
There were times during the year when I didn’t get along with the people whose closeness and support I so desperately needed. I argued with my children about their refusal to attend a support group for families dealing with cancer. I fought with my husband over the handling of certain household matters.
In the past, I had been able to handle disagreements such as these easily, but at this particular time, I couldn’t tolerate the feelings of loneliness and isolation that followed arguments. On these occasions, it felt as though the rope was slipping out of my hands, and I feared the dark waters would engulf me. These were the most frightening days of all because I knew I couldn’t make it through a year of treatment alone. The love and laughter of my family and friends were just as essential to my survival as the chemotherapy and radiation treatments.
I discovered that Aristotle was right when he said, “Friendship is a thing most necessary to life, since without friends, no one would choose to live, though possessed of all other advantages.”
And so throughout the entire year, I held on. I held on when it appeared as though my tumor wasn’t shrinking as it was supposed to in response to the chemotherapy. I held on when a bone scan revealed a dark spot that looked suspiciously like bone cancer on a rib. I held on as though my life depended on it, because it did.
I survived my journey. My raft, although battered by storms and raging currents, is still afloat. I often hear my friend’s words echoing in my mind: “Know what your rope is, Myra.” I do, and I’m still holding on.
Myra Shostak
A Message from My Marine
My chemotherapy and radiation treatments were finally over, and I had begun the long, slow process of physical, emotional and spiritual healing. I continued to have a great deal of pain from one of the chemotherapy drugs, and my oncologist told me it could be many months before the pain subsided. The throbbing in my bones was a constant, annoying reminder that I was not yet fully recovered.
During this time, my older son joined the United States Marine Corps. Initially I was disappointed that he had chosen not to go to college right away, and, of course, I was worried for his safety, but I was also immensely proud of his decision and his courage. The day I saw him graduate from recruit training at Parris Island, South Carolina, is one of the proudest days of my life.
During his training at Parris Island (one of the most grueling of boot camps in the armed forces), he sent me a letter describing some of what he was experiencing. He told of the biting sand fleas that infested the island. He told of ten-mile training runs in sweltering heat and humidity and the resulting blisters on his feet that broke and bled. He told of taking a pounding from another recruit in a boxing exercise.
The most amazing thing about the letter, however, was that not one word of my son’s detailed account held even a hint of complaint! He was clearly (and deservedly) proud of himself and his fellow recruits, and marveling each and every day at how much discomfort and even excruciating pain they could withstand. He was on a journey of self-discovery, testing his physical and mental limits, and reaching beyond them.
The letter ended with these words: “Mom, remember that pain is just weakness leaving your body.”
What powerful words those were! I clung to them and made them my mantra. I wrote them on an index card and taped it where I could see it every day.
With the words of my son’s letter and the attitude they mirrored, the way in which I looked at my pain shifted. It no longer meant that I was ill. It meant that I was alive, and that weakness and disease were leaving my body.
From the day I received that letter to this very minute, I have found discomfort and pain of every kind to be easier to bear if I just remind myself of my son’s brave words and courageous spirit.
Kathy Cawthon
My Red Badges of Courage
Only when you truly inhabit your body can you begin the healing journey.
Gabrielle Roth
That morning, I struggled with what I was wearing, knowing I’d be out on the basketball court with other young moms, all those healthy people who might look sideways at my angry red scars and be offended. I thought about changing clothes, but I really didn’t want to and didn’t have the time, so I decided to go as I was and face the stares. I’d faced stares before.
After the game, my kids and I went to a department store to buy my eight-year-old some basketball shoes.
I was wearing a tank top under a zippered sweatshirt, and hadn’t realized that my purse, which out of habit I’d slung over my right shoulder, pulled my sweatshirt open. My scars were easily visible to anyone who might be paying attention. The saleslady was paying attention.
We were hunched over, looking for the right shoe size among the boxes stacked under the display, when she stood up and looked at me with a serious expression.
She said, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Yes,” I said, though not really knowing why.
She asked, very quietly, “Is that a surgery scar?”
“Yes, it is.” I knew exactly what she meant as she started to ask, “Did you have surgery for . . . can . . . ?”
She didn’t finish her question, so I did: “Cancer? Yes, I had breast cancer.” I glanced over her shoulder briefly, just in time to see a woman look at me and then duck down, pretending to look at a pair of shoes she’d spotted.
“And . . . did you . . . beat it?” she asked, almost whispering.
“Yes, I did,” I smiled back at her.
Then she reached up and lightly touched a finger to her own breast and softly said, “Last month I found a lump. I don’t know what to do about it.”
I paused, slight tears welling into my eyes. “You need to have this checked immediately.” I reached out and touched her arm gently.
“I’m scared to find out if it is cancer.”
My thoughts darted to that day a lifetime ago when I found my lump while in the shower and convinced myself it was just a cyst. I didn’t want to know either. I have since learned that fear is never a reason for not doing something, and I told her as much, adding that she would very likely find out that the lump is benign. I asked, “Wouldn’t you rather have it checked and know that it’s nothing so you could relax?”
“Are a cyst and cancer different?”
“Yes, they are very different. And if you get it checked this week and find out that it is cancer, well then, you very likely have found it in time to beat it.”
“Oh . . .” was all she could manage to say.
“Unfortunately, I waited six months after finding my lump before going to get it checked out. I sometimes wonder, if I had gone earlier, if I would have avoided a complete mastectomy or chemotherapy or radiation.” She only nodded, wide eyes glancing down to my chest.
“Where should I start?”
“Go to your gynecologist, who will first do a manual exam and, if the lump seems suspicious, will send you to a lab for a mammogram. You’ll be well taken care of from there one way or another. Please . . . promise me that you’ll go this week.”
She nodded, then seemed embarrassed and turned to move away, muttering that she needed to see to other customers.
Smiling, I said, “That’s fine,” and added, “and I need to thank you for something. If I have helped you because you saw my scar, then it was worth letting you and anyone else notice it.” She let out a soft cry and briefly put her
head down before looking back up to smile at me.
That evening as my husband and I talked while making dinner, I shared this story. He declared, “Darn right you should show those scars. They are medals of honor. You fought and won a heck of a war.” Yes, I did, and from that day to this, I proudly show my scars, my Red Badges of Courage.
Donna St. Jean Conti
Courage Comes in All Colors
There is more here than meets the eye.
Lady Murasaki
Two weeks after I was diagnosed with breast cancer, there was a silent auction at our church. I’d been on the committee that was putting the party together, and I knew what a great event it was going to be: great music, great food, and a room full of people feeling festive and spending money for a good cause. Our theme was “Black and White, Starry Night” and, like the famed Black and White Ball, everyone would wear either black or white. For months, while working on the invitations and soliciting donations, I’d envisioned myself wearing my favorite black-tie outfit. My husband loved it, and I always felt grown-up when I wore it—wise and worldly and sexy— and it was black as night.
But I was scheduled to have a lumpectomy five days after the event—a procedure where a breast surgeon takes a slice of tissue from your breast, as if from an orange or an apple pie—and somehow a black dress didn’t feel right. I realized this would be the last public and formal event I’d ever attend with both breasts still intact.
I have, over the years, grown rather attached to my breasts. When I was in high school and college, I didn’t think much about them—they were average B-cup breasts, so what was there to think? They didn’t bounce too much when I played tennis, they filled out any dress or shirt I chose to wear, became marginally tender once a month, and were two of the primary reasons my boyfriend was able to say he liked my curves. The process of pregnancy, breastfeeding and motherhood, however, gave my breasts a whole new level of value. It made them, for one thing, a cup size bigger. They were plump and full, which made that same boyfriend—now my husband—pay even more attention, which was flattering and fun. Making babies also made my breasts functional. I breastfed both children for nine months each and was proud I could produce all those antibodies, all that concentrated protein.
I was three years past breastfeeding when cancer was diagnosed, and down a breast size from finally losing the weight of childbearing, so my breasts were, in some ways, past their prime. I didn’t need them to please a man because Rob now knew there was far more to me than just my curves. For all practical intents and purposes, I didn’t need my breasts to go on living a happy and healthy life, but the lumpectomy was still going to do them damage— and damage to your own flesh isn’t something you can just offhandedly accept.
The night of the party started out at a frantic pace—I was left with just ten minutes to get dressed. I ran into the house, went to pull out the dress and stopped. Hanging next to the black velvet was a long, luxurious raspberry-red gown with a deep V-neck in front and a deeper V in back. I’d never worn it.
I bought the dress with my sister, for no good reason, on sale at a little boutique. I had put on the Nicole Miller gown just for fun, stepped out of the dressing room to preen in front of the mirror and was met with the stares of every woman in the shop.
“That dress was made for you,” one woman said.
“You’re buying it,” my sister declared.
The dress was perfect—a simple forties movie-star dress that was curvy in exactly the same places I was. I had absolutely nowhere to wear such a dress, but bought it and stuck it in the back of my closet for two years.
I made a split-second decision: I was going to wear the red dress. Because of its deep Vs, I couldn’t wear a regular bra, but I thought, Why wear one?
I slipped the dress over my bare body and felt the cool glide of the satin lining fall from my shoulders to my ankles. I felt the fabric brush against my breasts. I pinned up my hair, put on some bright red lipstick and took off— to be the only woman wearing a colored dress in a room full of black and white.
I’ve never been a woman who turned heads. I have never felt confident enough in my looks to carry myself in such a way that I would. That night, however, I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. I felt wholly alive in that red dress, and people must have picked up on the electricity, as if it were a fragrance. Men and women alike, people I knew and people I didn’t know, came up to me to tell me how spectacular I looked, what a gorgeous dress I had on.
“You seem to glow,“ they said, and I loved the feeling of swishing around the room, feeling the weight of that dress as it draped to the floor, feeling it cool and clean on my bare breasts, which for that one last night, anyway, were still mine.
Many in that room were aware of my diagnosis and fear. The Sunday before, every hymn we sang in church made me cry, so I’d had to walk out of the service every ten minutes. But not one of my fellow parishioners mentioned my diagnosis the night of the party. It wasn’t as if they were afraid or being sensitive or polite. It was as if my wearing the red dress prohibited the very idea of breast cancer, like a shield of armor.
A few days later, I got a call from the head of the party committee, thanking me for my help—which I’d abruptly stopped giving two weeks before. “We finally got everything cleaned up,” she said, “and you were the hottest topic of discussion around the dish-drying rack.”
“Me?” I said, thinking of the way church ladies chatter and gossip, and wondering what I could possibly have done.
“You were the most beautiful woman in the room that night, Jennie, and the most courageous. A lot of women in your shoes wouldn’t have even shown up, let alone worn that dress.”
Courageous? I thought. Courageous? So that was what courage felt like—that rush of judgment to know just what to do—or wear—that sense of satisfaction that nothing— not even cancer—was going to stand in the way of feeling utterly confident, that sweet perfume of feeling completely and totally alive. If that was courage, it suited me as well as the red dress.
I’d like to frame it.
Jennie Nash
Reprinted with permission of Allan Hirsch ©1999.
Courage to Climb
One’s life shrinks or expands according to one’s courage.
Anaïs Nin
What am I doing here? I ask myself as I stand on the edge of the cliff, close my eyes, position my feet on the edge and lean back into empty space. I take the first step backwards over the edge, the ropes at once moving and supporting me. Talking to myself alleviates fear, and I silently recite the instructions: “Feet flat on rocks; pretend shoes have suction cups; allow rope to slide through hands; feet shoulder-width apart; don’t forget, right hand pulled to hip is the brake.” I’m terrified and don’t know if I can take another step.
Just weeks out of chemotherapy for a breast cancer recurrence, I stand in the lobby of the Denver, Colorado, downtown Holiday Inn, waiting for the Outward Bound van that will transport the Challenging the Course of Cancer group high into the Rockies. The recurrence has left me shaken, and I need to throw myself back into life and regain my courage.
Bus after bus arrives, loads and departs, and anxiety increases as the lobby empties. Only a few people remain. We stare at one another for a moment and then converge to the center of the room. Ayoungman about thirty looks at me questioningly and asks, “Challenging the Course of Cancer?”
“Yes,” I reply, relieved to know I’m not alone.
“Emilio,” he says and extends his hand. The others follow his lead, and we eagerly shake hands and exchange names.
At last the van arrives, and we begin the two-hour trip to the Outward Bound center near Leadville, Colorado. Excitement, apprehension, fear and hope emanate from these strangers, who reflect my own emotions. To succeed on this three-day adventure, we must learn to trust one another very quickly. Cancer is the only thing we presently have in common.
I’m balanced on the highest of several narrow s
teps that are nailed to a tree. Below, my companions stand in two rows, forming a human net with their arms. Whoever thought of this exercise? I ask myself as my body hugs the tree. I’ve just met these people—can I depend on them to keep my still fragile body from hitting the ground? They speak encouraging words, “Don’t think about it; just let go. You didn’t drop anyone when you were part of the net.”
I close my eyes and breathe deeply—ten breaths, fifteen breaths. I lean back, free-falling safely into the human net.
The fear felt during the free-fall returns in the next exercise: rappelling. Breathe, I tell myself. My body relaxes, as do my lungs, and once again I lean out and back, allowing the rope to move me slowly downward. Just as I’m gaining confidence, I place my feet too closely together and swing to one side, almost losing control. I bring my feet to the rocks, stabilizing my swinging body. Though shaken, I feel an unexpected surge of excitement and energy. My feet make friends with the rocks; my body melts into the rope; I experience unencumbered freedom, rappelling for sixty feet.
Emilio and I are last in line for the rock climb; we adjust our harnesses and check our boots. Just as we’re ready to begin, the rain comes, and all of us, nine participants and three counselors, huddle under a makeshift awning. Our bodies touch, and our breath mingles. The rain continues, and we laugh and talk as though we’ve always been friends. After almost an hour, John, one of the counselors, says, “We need to decide what to do.” Emilio doesn’t want to leave without climbing. Neither do I. It’s his thirty-first birthday today, and climbing the rocks is his gift to himself.
He and I begin our climb—the ropes and rocks are wet and slippery. I’m fine for the first five or six feet, then the foot and handholds seem to disappear. I remind myself of the instructions: “Touch three places at all times. Don’t use the knees.” My legs aren’t long enough to reach where I need to go, and I have to ignore the instructions and use my knees. I don’t look down, only up. I see Lori, Tina and Jeff waiting for me at the top. They speak words of encouragement, and finally I’m close enough to reach up and take their hands.