As I walked off the track following the survivor lap, I felt my mother’s determination. I realized we weren’t gathered there to start some monumental race against cancer; we were there to continue it.
Ryan Matthew Landis
3
CHALLENGES
To be tested is good. The challenged life may be the best therapist.
Gail Sheehy
The First Time’s Always the Worst
Humor tells you where the trouble is.
Louise Bernikow
The first mammogram is the worst—especially when the machine catches on fire. That’s what happened to me. The technician positioned me exactly as she wanted: Think of a really complicated game of Twister—right hand on the blue, left shoulder on the yellow, right breast as far away as humanly possible from the rest of your body. Then she clamped the machine down so tight, I think my breast actually turned inside out. I’m pretty sure Victoria’s Secret doesn’t have a bra for that.
Suddenly, there was a loud popping noise. I looked down at my right breast to make sure it hadn’t exploded. Nope, it was still flat as a pancake and still attached to my body. “Oh, no,” the technician said loudly. These are, perhaps, the words you least want to hear from any health professional. Suddenly, she went flying past me, lab coat whipping behind, on her way out the door. She yelled over her shoulder, “The machine’s on fire! I’m going to get help!”
Okay, I was wrong. “The machine is on fire” are the worst words you can hear from a health professional, especially if you’re all alone and semipermanently attached to A MACHINE and don’t know if it’s THE MACHINE in question.
I struggled for a few seconds to get free, but even Houdini couldn’t have escaped. I decided to go to plan B: yelling at the top of my lung (the one that was still working).
I hadn’t seen anything on fire, so my panic hadn’t quite reached epic proportions, but then I started to smell smoke coming from behind the partition. This is ridiculous, I thought. I can’t die like this. What would they put in my obituary? Cause of death: breast entrapment?
I may have inhaled some fumes because I started to hallucinate. An imaginary fireman rushed in with a fire hose and a hatchet. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “What’s happened here?” he asked, averting his eyes.
“My breasts were too hot for the machine,” I quipped, as my imaginary fireman ran out of the room again. “This is gonna take the Jaws of Life!”
In reality, the technician returned with a fire extinguisher and put out the fire. She gave me a big smile and released me from the machine. “Sorry! That’s the first time that’s ever happened. Why don’t you take a few minutes to relax before we finish up?”
I think that’s what she said. I was running across the parking lot in my backless paper gown at the time. After I relaxed for a few years, I figured I might go back. But I was bringing my own fire extinguisher.
Leigh Anne Jasheway
The Hardest Mile
Success is a great healer.
Gertrude Atherton
With trembling fingers, I tie the running sneakers with a double bow as my heart races, breathing shallows and fingers fumble. One might think I was preparing for a marathon rather than one single, hopeful mile.
Slowly, I begin a stretching routine. I adjust the drawstring on my running pants, and they feel tight, a reminder of the fifteen pounds gained in as many months. I head for the door with trepidation. The brilliant rays of the sun welcome me; they caress my face and remind me of what I’ve been missing.
I recall my last run, eighteen months ago: It was a beautiful spring day—the kind that made me believe I could run forever. I remember vividly that I ran seven carefree miles along the rocky Atlantic coastline. I also remember the nickel-sized lump I found in my left breast while showering afterward. Mostly, I remember the panic . . . a crippling, paralyzing panic as I embarked on the hardest year of my life.
Never in my wildest dreams did I expect a diagnosis of breast cancer. Not me, not at thirty-nine years old. After all, I had always been so careful. With no family history, I still carefully checked my breasts each month. At each yearly physical examination, I waited impatiently as my doctor gave me my usual pap smear, breast exam, blood pressure check and a variety of routine blood tests. I would grin and bear the yearly mammograms and secretly scoff at each negative result. After all, I was doing all the right things. I was delighted and a little proud each time my doctor commented on my strong, slow heart rate and my clear, healthy lungs, but after all, I’d been running for years on a regular basis—five to seven miles a day, five days a week.
How could I have breast cancer?
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of tests, bone scans and surgery. Running was out of the question. Even after the wide excision lumpectomy healed, the endless weeks of radiation left me exhausted and so badly burned that running was impossible. The news that I was to undergo a long series of aggressive chemotherapy treatments was an even bigger blow. My body did not tolerate the drugs well, even the antinausea medications, and my spirit was thinner than my hair.
Now and again, on “off weeks” from the rigorous chemo schedule, I would pull on my sneakers and attempt to run a little, but each time I reluctantly gave into a walk that left me feeling even more defeated and depressed. I stopped trying. I mourned for my lost health, as well as the loss of running, which had always replenished me physically, emotionally and spiritually.
Word of my illness spread like wildfire through the small town where I live. I kept up a smiling front for all. Only my husband was aware of my growing depression. By the grace of God and the love and support of good friends and family, I made it through the darkness of that tunnel. With over a year of treatment and a barrage of clean follow-up tests behind me, I was on the road to recovery. With my doctor’s okay, I began the long road back.
Bound and determined to succeed, I head up our driveway as the road welcomes me once again, and I meet it with a hesitant jog. Slowly, I head toward the old, familiar route. My breathing is labored, and beads of perspiration form on my brow; soon I feel the familiar pink flush color my face. I think how quickly I have lost my endurance and once again consider stopping, but I persevere.
Just moments into my run, I hear words of encouragement froma fellow runner, a man whose only link to me is the road we travel. “Good to see you again!” he says. “Don’t give up!”
A few folks drive by and give a hearty wave and “thumbs up” sign that helps me go on. Slowly, my confidence builds, and I approach the hill that leads me home. Now I know I can do it! I have conquered bigger hills—hills that I never thought possible. At the summit I hold my head high and round the corner to catch a glimpse of my house through the trees. I smile proudly: I did it. I ran a mile!
It has been thirteen years since my diagnosis. I still run, counting my blessings with each step.
Jacqueline M. Hickey
One Is Enough
Experience is not what happens to you; it’s what you do with what happens to you.
Aldous Huxley
I was a widow and the mother of two teenagers when I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1973. My mother had had a mastectomy in the 1940s, and she had gotten along beautifully. My surgery and recovery also went well. I was able to return to work and volunteered as the Reach to Recovery person for our American Cancer Society.
When my first granddaughter, Heather, was about four years old, she visited my home overnight. I had to take a shower, so I had her stay in the bathroom with me so I could keep an eye on her.
When I was drying off, she noticed I had only one breast. She had lots of questions, and I tried to answer them to her satisfaction. Finally, she hung her head in deep thought and said, “Barney, if you have only one, why don’t you wear it in the middle?”
When I visited new mastectomy patients, I lifted a lot of spirits with this story. God bless!
Mary Ellen “Barney” LaFavers
Blessings Beyond
Belief
It’s kind of fun to do the impossible.
Walt Disney
My eyes well up with tears as I watch my eight-month-old daughter, Adrianna, smile from ear to ear as she sees our reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her arms reach out to the other baby in the mirror. I still can’t believe I’m holding my own daughter—I feel so blessed to have experienced the miracle of creating a new little life. She is a product of the love between my husband, Jim, and me, our miracle baby, because we weren’t sure I could conceive after battling breast cancer.
Being diagnosed at age twenty-five after finding a lump in the shower was a total shock; we had only been married two years and were settling into a comfortable life, but suddenly we were researching surgery and treatment options. The biggest blow came when we discovered that chemotherapy could force a woman into menopause. I wasn’t prepared for that. Breast cancer could take away my breast, but I would not let it take away my ability to have children! An oncologist told me I should not be concerned with that and instead should focus on curing my cancer. It hurt me tremendously that she didn’t see how important it was to us to have a child.
Devastated, we threw ourselves into researching every option available, from postponing chemotherapy to freezing fertilized embryos. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much research done on the treatment of younger women and the effects on their ability to have children. After much analysis and prayer, we decided to leave my health in the Lord’s hands and go ahead with the TRAM flap surgery and six months of chemotherapy. We knew if the Lord wanted us to have children, he would provide the way— whether by natural means or adoption.
After the conclusion of my treatment, my husband and I waited several years to try to conceive, as we wanted to at least reach the five-year mark without a recurrence. Making the decision to go ahead and have children was difficult. We knew I would always be at a higher risk for the return of cancer, which in real terms meant that I might not be around to raise my children. Again, we trusted that the Lord had a plan for our family and knew we could not live in fear. After seven years, he blessed us with a precious, vibrant baby girl!
I’m so thankful for the early detection methods that were available. Because I found my lump early and didn’t put off investigating it, my prognosis was great. It can be a frightening experience to get a mammogram, but as so many women can attest to, it saves lives! I not only saved my own life by following through with treatment, but as a result, I was able to give life as well. I want to encourage younger women in particular who are diagnosed with this disease to face breast cancer head on! There is so much that can be done now, and you have a lot of living left to do. Fight hard and you will come out of the experience stronger and more alive than ever!
Breast cancer has changed my life in so many unimaginable ways. None of us choose to join the “boobie pity-party club,” as I like to call it. Throughout the journey of surgeries and treatment, it is only reasonable to wonder: Why me? Why now? Can there possibly be a purpose in all of this?
As a newly diagnosed person, all you can do is focus on what needs to be done to heal your body. It wasn’t until months later that I really looked at why this disease chose me. Now as an eight-year survivor, I can honestly say I feel breast cancer was a blessing. Yes, a blessing. After getting past the “why me’s,” I realized this health crisis in my life allowed me to take a step back, evaluate my life, and look for the meaning and truth in this experience. This struggle strengthened my faith that God had a purpose in this for my life. It is in these valleys of life that we are tested, forced to grow and are bestowed with wisdom beyond our years. I know I have traveled the cancer journey so that I may be a source of encouragement and strength to other women.
I hope to empower both newly diagnosed women and survivors of many years with some of my “Cancer Reflections.” Here is what I have learned:
Live life in the now. Don’t always be looking ahead and miss what is happening today! Live each day as if it were your last. Death is a reality for all of us, but how you choose to live each day is up to you.
You are responsible for your own joy! Identify what makes you joyful and then seek it regularly! Life is too short to waste on things that won’t last. There will always be things to complain about, but isn’t it better to be optimistic and hopeful?
Live courageously, no matter what the circumstances. Don’t let breast cancer define who you are; instead, let it affect how you embrace life. Allow God to stretch you out of your comfort zone. If you can survive breast cancer, you can take on anything!
Make God real to others, and love them without ceasing. Let others see God in you in how you speak, act, think and react to life’s situations. Sometimes all we can give to another hurting person is our unconditional love.
Master your fear, or at least tame it! We all struggle with the fear of recurrence. Don’t let this steal your joy. Instead, starve those fears with faith, trust and prayer.
Practice self-love. Self-love doesn’t mean being selfish; it means taking care of you! Take care of your body and your emotions. Find your balance. We all need quiet time to reflect and re-energize. Don’t feel guilty about not taking on yet another commitment or project. If you are a whole, healthy person, you can cope better and be an inspiration to others.
Become involved in educating about breast cancer and finding a cure! Participate in an event that raises money for breast-cancer treatment, screening or research. Call five of your best friends each month and encourage them to do their monthly breast self-exam. Join a support group to help other women through their cancer journey. I want to be an active part—however small it may be—of finding the cure! On my seventy-fifth birthday, I will celebrate fifty-years of conquering breast cancer. My grandchildren will have to be told what breast cancer was like, back in the days before there was a cure!
A fellow breast cancer friend always says, “Breast cancer only happens to the strongest of women.”
Denise Blunk
The Gift of Photography
and a Beautiful Breast
I wear the key of memory and can open every door in the house of my life.
Amelia E. Barr
Sometimes the things we do bring unexpected gifts. We do these things because we’re passionate to do them as we follow our soul’s desire. And by doing so, we, and those around us, are gifted beyond measure. Photography has given me and others such gifts.
Some time back, I was working in a wild animal rental compound: the movie stars were great beasts like tigers, bears and giraffes. I would see a woman trainer sitting with a cheetah in deep-eye conversation. I would see another trainer riding on the back of a giraffe. I saw the owner walk across the front lawn with a Bengal tiger by his side. I couldn’t stand it any more—I went to the photo store and bought a single-reflex camera to photograph such beauty and wonder.
Not two weeks later, I was in the living room of the owner and his best friend. They were two hearty and strong men, giving each other a big bear hug. It was so beautiful I picked up my camera and photographed that hug. The best friend soon had to move from the area. I later handed the owner the photo of him and his good friend, and that image meant more to him than a pocketful of gold. That is what photography can do. Like the poet writes odes to love, photography can image an ode to an old friend.
Some time later, I was visiting my pals, Linda and Stu. They asked me if I might take some photos of them for good memories and work, and so I did. After such gorgeous images with the sun streaming behind their glistening hair, Linda asked me, “Pamela, do you mind taking some pictures of my breasts as they are now? I want to honor them; I want to honor the one that is to be leaving. I’m soon to have a mastectomy; I have cancer and feel this is the best choice.”
And so we took photos of Linda’s two breasts as they were, then with her holding them with her two womanly hands, and then with Stu holding them with his two manly hands, as he stood behind his wife.
And thinking about the time
when photography honored Linda’s breasts, and the breast that was soon to be leaving, as an ode to the beauty of what was a triumph of the spirit to honor what is gone and to celebrate what is and is yet to come—yes, that is what we all did that day together, we friends, our spirits, our bodies, the camera, the film and, most of all, the smiles in the clouds that day as they gently danced around us, reminding us we are all in this together. Some things come. Some things change form. And we can, in so many different ways, celebrate our time on this Earth together.
There are holy moments in photography. This was one of them.
Pamela Shandel
For Richer or Poorer
We didn’t have a road map for this novel idea of living happily ever after, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. It was 1971; I was seventeen, and he was eighteen. I was still in high school, and David was barely out of high school, yet we faced the road ahead with blind faith of our undying love for each other. We each had scarce backgrounds financially and academically, but knew we had each other.
Twenty years later, my husband and I had the ideal family life: a daughter and a son, flourishing careers, and a beautiful home. How could life be any better? We felt that indeed we were on the right road to all the goodness that life had to offer—until the morning I was heading to the shower and somehow instinctively reached toward my right breast. Even though I had done breast self-exams periodically, I had never done them with concern, nor had I ever expected to find anything. This time, however, the instinctive move to my breast before I had even stepped into the shower was beyond my conscious effort, and immediately upon finding a large, hard knot, I was alarmed. Later that morning, I made an appointment with the gynecologist I had been seeing for more than twenty years.