Chicken Soup for the Breast Cancer Survivor's Soul

  The person who originally contacted me about the picture has made an impact on my life, and I will be forever grateful to her. She kept telling me that I had a story to tell and that others needed to hear it. My story has now been told in a TV documentary, the snapshot has appeared on the cover of a magazine, and I have done public speaking engagements. None of this would have been possible if it had not been “meant to be.” The picture didn’t reveal my face, but it gave me a voice.

  For five years I tried to find the person I was embracing in the picture. Every year I went to the race searching for this woman in the crowd of thousands, hoping to recognize her. Every year that went by I started to think that perhaps she didn’t make it. This is a part of the reality we live with every day as a survivor.

  I got my invitation to a luncheon held annually in Pittsburgh for survivors and went alone, feeling a little awkward. I wasn’t alone for long; I met two of the nicest ladies who invited me to sit with them.

  This is where fate and “meant to be” come into the picture: They asked me to go ahead into the room where the presentation would be and save them each a seat. I had to find a row that had three empty seats. They soon joined me, and we held hands crying during the song, “We Share a Bond.” The person in front of me began to cry, and I noticed there was no one sitting on either side of her. I felt a great need to give her a hug, and I did so from behind. Without turning around, she gently patted my hand that rested on her shoulder and thanked me.

  As the program was ending, the lady turned around and thanked me, saying, “You must have known I really needed that.”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I asked, “Have you been at any of the past races? You look so familiar.”

  She replied, “Maybe you saw me on the cover of the magazine they put in the race packets. I’m the one being hugged.”

  I burst into tears and said, “I’ve been searching for you for five long years!”

  I’ve had so many wonderful things happen to me since I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and sometimes I need reminding of how bad it really was. I am a twelve-year survivor now, and the years have been an awakening.

  The people I’ve met along my “detour” have led me to places I would not have otherwise gone. I believe more than ever that I am here for a reason.

  Elaine Zalar

  “Thanks for your support, ladies. I never knew

  such loss could lead to such a find.”

  Reprinted with permission of Jonny Hawkins ©2005.

  My Guardian Angel

  Grow old with me; the best is yet to be.

  Robert Browning

  I have always been a very modest person and always will be.

  The nurse told me, “You can get up and go to the bathroom on your own now.” Doug, my husband, was there to help me get up and out of bed, my right arm dangling loosely and chest wrapped tightly following my mastectomy. I felt like a mummy on one side.

  I decided I could go it alone and moved forward to the bathroom, very embarrassed because my rear end was flashing.

  I said, “Honey, don’t you say a word.”

  He did. “Sweetie, I like that gown so much, maybe we can find you another one at the store when you get out of here.”

  With my humor back in place, I replied, “Well, if we’re really lucky, maybe they will leave my fanny alone for now.”

  We both hee-hawed, and that’s the way we continued to handle the situation.

  When we did go home, I must admit I had a hard time allowing him to help me with my bandage, but, of course, it was not something I could do for myself. As he gently bent over me, the tears were rolling down my face, and he did the most astonishing thing: he leaned down, kissed my bandage and said, “Nanci, I am so thankful for that scar! Every time I look at it, I thank God, because if you didn’t have it, I would have lost you. So there is no reason for us to feel anything but praise to God for the surgery. It has saved your life.”

  I believe that God, knowing the adversity that has been in my life way before my marriage and since, sent a special man to me. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if my husband is also my very own guardian angel. I’m thankful for him every day. Through seventeen years as a survivor and forty-seven years of marriage, we are still thanking God for the surgery and for each day, one day at a time.

  Nanci L. Stroupe

  Hearts and Flowers

  I’ve been no more than a medium, as it were.

  Henri Matisse

  It was June 1988, and my husband was speaking on the phone with my surgeon’s nurse. My mother was with me as my husband confirmed that the breast cancer I had survived six years before had returned.

  I had noticed a change in the appearance of my breast. Aware that this was a sign of breast cancer and knowing how important early detection is, I immediately made an appointment with my surgeon. After several tests and confirmation that the cancer had returned, my doctor recommended removal of my right breast and six months of chemotherapy.

  I was frightened beyond belief and numbed. I couldn’t believe this was happening. My life had been happy and unmarred by tragedy. I was a devoted daughter and sister, had lots of friends, had gone to college, married a wonderful man, had two beautiful children, a home, hobbies—a blessed life. But breast cancer does not discriminate.

  The surgery to remove my breast was uneventful, and breast reconstruction was not recommended for me at that time. Satisfied with my progress after a few days, the doctor was about to send me home. Needing the security of the hospital, I remember taking off my hospital gown in the shower and looking at myself for the first time. For some odd reason, I didn’t cry, and I accepted what I saw. I had lost a breast, but I was alive and going to survive! I went home that day to begin my life again.

  I began chemotherapy and had a rough time of it, needing a six-month leave of absence from work. I spent my days reading, writing in a journal, and visiting with family and friends. Between treatments, my husband took me on short vacations and to the movies. By the time Christmas rolled around, my treatments had ended, and I happily attended my husband’s annual holiday party.

  One day after showering, it became suddenly and painfully apparent that my right breast was gone. I was devastated! Then I realized that for many months, I had focused exclusively on the loss of my hair, not the loss of my breast. Now all I could see was a horizontal scar running across the right side of my chest. I was alone in my house, and tears flowed freely as I grieved for the loss.

  My eighteen-year-old daughter asked if we could go shopping on Balboa Island, a cute little town nearby. We ferried over to the island to spend the day. As we entered the first shop, we noticed a display of paper tattoos of flowers, hearts, fish and seashells. We thought they were cute, purchased some strips of them, and returned to our beach house after several hours. According to the directions, after a few seconds with some warm water, they would be easy to apply, and we decorated our ankles and shoulders. After all, it was summer and a fun thing to do while on vacation.

  The next morning transformed my life! I got up early, made some coffee, and sat outside celebrating a new day and looking at the beautiful ocean. Soon I decided to put on a bathing suit for another great day at the beach. Suddenly, seeing a strip of the recently purchased tattoos lying on the counter in the bathroom, I was struck with an idea: why not cut off a tattoo and place it over my mastectomy scar? I followed the simple directions, and, within seconds, my chest was adorned with a peach-colored rose! It was so pretty and feminine. I felt excited beyond belief: I had added a new accessory to my wardrobe and focused on a beautiful flower, not the scar.

  Every day, I wore a paper tattoo. I wore flowers in the fall and spring, hearts on Valentine’s Day, seashells on vacations, and even an “I Love You” in November to celebrate my wedding anniversary. For eleven years, I had elected not to undergo breast reconstructive surgery. Even without my breast, I was content to live my life, healthy and happy. It amazed me how paper tattoos change
d the way I coped with the loss of my breast.

  I still remember driving to a follow-up appointment with my oncologist. Suddenly, I realized that several days before I had applied a new tattoo and, in anticipation of my check-up, had not removed it. What would the doctor think? The moment arrived as he opened the front of the gown.

  He broke into a huge smile. “I would never put anything past you! And that’s one of the healthiest coping mechanisms I’ve ever seen! May I share your idea with other breast-cancer patients?” Of course, I was delighted.

  I feel blessed to share my journey that began in 1982. Three years ago, I underwent reconstructive surgery and now celebrate a new right breast. I have recently been discharged from my oncologist’s care; he declared me free of breast cancer.

  I celebrate every single day of my life. I pray for continued good health and have participated with my daughter in the Revlon Run/Walk for breast and ovarian cancers. The event is held annually in Los Angeles in order to raise money to obliterate this terrible disease. Crossing the finish line was emotional and exhilarating for both of us.

  I don’t have the need to wear my paper tattoos anymore, but I have never discarded the ones I never used. I keep them in a special little box in a cabinet, and when I stumble across them, I see hearts and flowers and smile!

  Joan Persky

  Light

  God allows us to experience the low points of life in order to teach us lessons we could learn in no other way.

  C. S. Lewis

  Cancer was not the first time I went to war with myself.

  Every fitting-room session was a battle, as was every crampy menstrual period, every saggy-eyed morning reflected in the mirror. From the time I was sixteen, I, like most women I knew, was in conflict with my body. I apologized for it often—jokingly at auditions, earnestly at photo sessions, shyly as I gave it for the first time to a geeky, sweetly bookish boy on the top bunk in his post-Salinger dorm room. As if a flat chest and broad thighs weren’t bad enough, childbirth and time added thick ankles and stretch marks to the indictment. And I never did like my nose and my hair, and . . . well, let’s not even go there.

  But I never used the word “gargoyle” until I stared into the mirror at my blotchy post-surgery complexion, bloating above the gruesome biopsy scar secured by a four-inch chain of black stitches.

  “My bride!” Gary teased, stalking me with his arms outstretched stiffly like Mary Shelley’s monster. “Gloria Frankensteinem.”

  I faced my fate with unwavering courage and a relatively small amount of cowardice and . . . oh, all right— with drugs! Good drugs! The expensive kind! And lots of ’em! Praise God and pass the Valium.

  Maybe that accounted for my Waldenesque post-biopsy introspection. Whatever the catalyst, it did seem that in the days following the diagnosis, the usual every day noise had calmed considerably. Momentum that had always carried me forward like a freight train rolled to a halt. What had seemed the most pressing obligations were now the least significant, and I couldn’t help but see the parallel between my denial of the long overdue changes needed in my life and my denial of the cancer that had already seeped from one small lymph node to both sides of my neck and down toward my chest.

  I’d always given away my time and efforts as easily as an old lady offers knickknacks at a yard sale, asking little and accepting even less. From Bunk Boy to bosses to the PTA volunteer coordinator, no one ever had to beg for their piece of me, and not recognizing that all those little pieces added up to my life, I performed in overdrive to make sure I surpassed their expectations. Now, for the first time, my life was at the top of my agenda.

  Women of my generation often don’t know what to do with that. We’ve grown accustomed to the concept that we should be doing the work of at least two people, and we’ve learned to pacify ourselves while our sleeping spirits slumber on. But sooner or later the alarm goes off. We’re forced to open our eyes. And much to our surprise, there is light.

  Joni Rodgers

  “I’ve learned to stop worrying about

  my body image, and love my reflection.

  There you are . . . you fetching creature!”

  Reprinted with permission of Stephanie Piro ©2004.

  I Can’t Believe You

  There is only one history of any importance, and it is the history of what you once believed in, and the history of what you came to believe in.

  Kay Boyle

  “I can’t believe you tell people your age,” my friend commented.

  “Hey, I don’t mind. Really! In fact, I love my age, because every single birthday means more than just presents and chocolate cake.”

  The day I heard the word “cancer” spoken by my doctor, life turned upside down.

  “I have a test on Monday,” I said foolishly, thinking he’d postpone surgery so I could ace my humanities test. I didn’t realize I was preparing for the biggest test of my life.

  Within hours, I discovered that I did have cancer. I learned at age thirty-two to face mortality—cancer had spread to my lymph nodes. Every time the doctors entered my room, they walked in with bad news and one more specialist. One white coat meant cancer. Two white coats meant chemo. Three meant radiation. Four meant detection of another possible tumor.

  At one point, five doctors stood around my bed. It seemed fitting because the statistics had dropped to a 10 percent chance of surviving five years—one doctor for each year I might live.

  There was a multitude of reasons to stick around—a husband of twelve years whom I loved a whole lot and three beautiful children who were clueless to the plight of their mom and dad, but who gave me daily strength in their innocent love and handmade gifts that hung on the hospital wall. To this day, I still have a crayon picture of me resting in bed, with a large head and larger lips and a thermometer sticking out of my mouth. The words “get well so u can com home” were my mantra.

  I’m thankful for cancer in many ways. Does that sound crazy? I wouldn’t wish it on anyone and don’t want to go through it again, but it was a teacher. It helped me treasure every single day. It forced me to prioritize my life— things that were once important seemed foolish. It pushed me off the hamster wheel this society calls sacred and let me pursue the desires of my heart, instead of my wallet. It gave me the ability to see life as fragile, not one day promised. It allowed me to treasure my three beautiful children, who sometimes brought heartache along with joy as they grew up, who are all now in college and can now spell beautifully.

  When I hit my fifth year of survival, I left my job to write full-time. I decided not to write one more word about anything that didn’t matter to me. It was a step of faith, but made perfect sense. Cancer taught me not to let the opportunities of your heart pass you by because none of us are promised “one day” or “someday.”

  On my fortieth birthday, I rode go-carts with thirty of my closest friends to celebrate. The numbers 4-0 hanging across the wall were a beautiful sight. I celebrated my tenth year of survival on a boat in the Amazon in the rainforest of Brazil. I sat on the top level and watched the sun rise, and from somewhere deep inside, I thanked God for the opportunity to experience life through facing death.

  You see, life has become a series of celebrations. Last month, I celebrated my thirteenth year of survival and embraced my forty-fourth birthday. Next month, Richard and I will celebrate our twenty-fourth anniversary. Leslie, our oldest, turned twenty-one last year, and our twins are twenty . . . young adults now—all running after their own dreams, which my bout with cancer taught them, too.

  I look at my friend and answer her question. Do I mind telling my age? Absolutely not! I’ll shout it from the rooftops: I’m forty-four! I’m thankful for all ten gray hairs (though I will cover them with honey ash brown and romantic red highlights). When I look in the mirror and notice the small lines appearing around my mouth and eyes, I don’t call them wrinkles. I call them opportunities. Every line was placed there by a smile that creased my face—an experience, larg
e or small, that came from living this gift called life.

  T. Suzanne Eller

  The Big “C”

  “The Big ‘C’” I heard someone call it.

  Another just whispered the word.

  That we don’t even dare to say “cancer” out loud

  Gives it power it doesn’t deserve.

  So I’m giving that letter new meaning

  And refusing to give in to fear

  By reclaiming the power for you and for me

  And by saying these words loud and clear:

  Let the “C” be for “Cure” and “Compassion.”

  Let it stand for the “Candles” we light.

  And a “Chorus” of voices shouting “You Can!”

  To all who will take up this fight.

  Let the “C” be for “Cash Contribution”

  (”Credit” or “Check” will work, too).

  Let it stand for “Commitment” and “Checkups”

  And “Cheer,”

  And the “Children” “Counting” on you.

  Let it mean that we know our “Creator”

  Is beside us each step of the way,

  And remind us to “Call” on his strength and his love

  And to “Celebrate” every new day.

  To everyone facing this “Challenge,”

  I say it’s a fight we can win.

  Tell all who will listen, that starting today,

  The “C” is for “Courage” my friend.

  Kathy Cawthon

  “I feel a lot better now since I found so much

  information about cancer treatments on the web.”

  Reprinted with permission of Charles Markman ©2005.