It’s happened twice, first to my husband, and now to me. Sharing the news that we’ve recently been diagnosed with a cancer, we are immediately told how lucky we are. “Everybody gets that,” “Oh, that’s nothing,” “That one’s so easy to cure. It’s just a blip on the radar.”

Facing breast cancer treatment, I don’t feel lucky right now. My husband didn’t feel lucky, either, after being told he had prostate cancer at an early age. Certainly not when he developed stomach cancer ten years later. We felt gut-punched. Our sense of personal identity was forever marred. We were scared. We grieved for each other, we grieved for ourselves, we grieved for the irreparable changes treatment would make in our marriage. But because everyone kept telling us how lucky we were, we didn’t express those reactions to anyone outside the shelter of each other.

* * *

My caregiving sister and brother-in-law have ventured out on a shopping trip, and my husband and I find ourselves alone for the first time since surgery. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and remove the gauze 4x4s that were stuffed into my bra before leaving the hospital. I pull the fabric down and see a 6” horizontal incision Steri-Stripped across the length of my right breast. Bruises are forming beneath it. A second, smaller incision nearer the armpit is purple and sore. I burst into tears and run to my husband. We stand together swaying, me sobbing in the cradle of his arms. He rubs my back and murmurs, “I don’t care what it looks like. I just want you to be okay.” I remember saying the same thing to him twelve years ago, when he began treatment for a stomach cancer and a benign but poorly positioned brain tumor. Then I do feel lucky, lucky to have this caring man at my side for nearly fifty years. We are comforted, both.

* * *

A treasured writing associate drops by with a book of poems and a hug. On telling this friend how kind every person has been to my ailing self, she says kindnesses return to the giver tenfold. The thought strikes me as it never has before. How can it possibly be true? I ruminate on the idea for hours and decide that one who performs kindnesses to others recognizes them when they happen. Conversely, if one never considers the world in which a fellow human dwells or the challenges they carry, one remains not only ineffective in helping others, but also remains blind to any kindness extended towards them. They simply don’t see that it exists. I wonder, if a great kindness is offered to that tone-deaf person when they are in a vulnerable state, would they begin to comprehend the all-encompassing beauty of compassion in action? Would they step into that light?

* * *

Fifteen minutes before the clinic is set to close, a bing on my iPad announces a new test result is available. So soon, my surgical pathology report has arrived. I rush to enter my username and password, open the document, and begin racing through the clinical words. Invasive ductal cell carcinoma. Solid papillary carcinoma. What? Two types? Nearest distance of tumor to margins: 2 cm. Good. This is good. Micrometastases seen in one of two lymph nodes. Oh no! It has spread to a sentinel lymph node. Does this mean chemo instead of the endocrine therapy? The doctor said something about possible micrometastases when he peeked in on me after the operation. He said it meant there would be radiation to that area, as well as to the breast. I forgot to ask if it also meant chemotherapy. As much as I proclaimed to not want chemo, in that instant I know I’ll take it if advised. I’m not ready to die. I want every chance to continue this precious life with my treasured family and friends.

I quickly enter “solid papillary carcinoma” in the American Cancer Society’s website search bar, and am greeted with the words, “PROGNOSIS: EXCELLENT. Less than 1% of all breast cancers are of this type.” I look up nodal micrometastases and see this is the absolute earliest manifestation and usually does not alter the cancer’s stage. This sounds good.

An hour later, a dear girlfriend calls, and while I’m babbling to her on the phone a second call blinks in. It’s my surgeon. He explains the reason for the incision he used and how the appearance will change over time. He assures me plastic repair remains an option for many years to come; no need to decide now. He says the nodal micrometastases only slightly raise the possibility of chemotherapy, that he’ll reach out to my chosen medical oncologist who will likely run further testing on my specimen. He tells me solid papillary carcinoma is a subtype of invasive ductal, and that it is a blessing to have this highly treatable type. He assures me. He makes me laugh. When I mention my long history of anxiety, he offers a referral to a breast cancer psychotherapist who he says I’ll love, and I accept. When we hang up, I run to my husband in his recliner, eyes sparkling with happier tears. He mutes the television and listens, his own eyes glistening.

* * *

The behavioral psychologist appears on the screen and introduces herself. Despite the impressive education and work history detailed online, she looks young. But her demeanor seems genuine, appropriate. I answer her get-to-know-you-session questions, telling her that my first professional intervention nearly twenty-five years ago changed my life. I describe twitching eyes, panic attacks, the loss of playfulness, my tender but binding obligations. I don’t tell her about the bleak poems I wrote as a teen, the urge to drive into a bridge abutment on the way home from work in middle age, the many mornings suspended until my sweet, caring husband is safely awake and medicated and fed. I espouse the joy found in speaking with my sister, my female friends, my fellow writers.
She tells me she’ll not refer me for medication therapy evaluation right now, that I’m coping quite well, considering. I feel a bit disappointed at this, at losing the “easy way out,” but don’t tell her. We make a date for next week, exit the interview. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, smile at the sunshine sparkling on the snow outside. So, this is how it will be, always. One foot in front of the other, emulating anew the brave countenance of my feminine heroes.

* * *

The first post-op exam is over. The skillful young surgeon proclaims everything is healing beautifully, that I won’t believe how different things will look in another week, or two. His face crinkles in smiles while we choose an appropriate “knitted knocker” to even out my figure until treatment’s end allows a professional prosthesis. He gently reminds me that plastic repair remains an option even years from now, if I ever change my mind about it. He chuckles and tells me my case is boring. Surprised at the term, I chuckle back and assure him that’s okay with me, even though nothing in the recent past has seemed boring. When I see this man again in six months, I hope that will actually be the case—that these anxious days will seem boring in retrospect because I’ve moved on to something so much more wonderful, rather than to something even more frightening.

* * *

I’ve always been vain about my hair. Its silky, golden tones catch the sunlight and, I imagine, distract the eye from my bovine hips and legs. Its length wisps just above two sumptuous breasts. One of which is now a third less sumptuous and devoid of its perky, pink nipple. My husband and I met with my medical oncologist yesterday. A pleasant, middle-aged man, he said just a few years ago he would have recommended chemo absolutely, based on the size of my tumor. Instead, my tissue will be sent to a distant lab for genomic testing, which will yield a percentage of risk of recurrence. His recommendation will be based on that. He listens carefully to my heart and lungs. He mashes about on my abdomen. He never looks at the surgeon’s handiwork; that’s not his concern. If the risk turns out to be high, chemo will be next. Four cycles, three weeks apart. No, I won’t lose my ability to write cohesively. Yes, I’ll lose my hair. Afterward, on to radiation.

I begin to imagine what kind of wig might best suit my face and wonder what my hair will look like when it grows back. At sixty-seven, the era of below-shoulder tresses might be past. I’ll ask my hairdresser when we meet for a routine trim on Tuesday. She’ll know what to do. She’s probably worked with cancer patients before. As always, she’ll know exactly how to make me feel just a little more beautiful. Again.

* * *

I raved and spewed and docudrama-ed to my psychologist this morning. Was she up to such a display at 8 a.m. on Valentine’s Day? She’ll likely never tell. The last text I got from my brother—text two of two regarding my cancer diagnosis—came the night before surgery. In four recent phone conversations, neither my sister-in-law nor her husband asked how I was doing. After forty-nine years of holidays, birthdays, random dinners—almost all of them prepared and hosted by me at our home—do they really care so little about my health, my state of mind? Did they find those family gatherings an obligation they would have rather gone without?

My genome results arrived last week. My medical oncologist said my tumor will respond well to hormone therapy, that chemotherapy would have no effect on its likelihood to recur. The very news I wanted, obsessed about. Yet, each of these developments is dwarfed by the news that our forty-year-old niece-in-law, mother of three-year-old twins, has breast cancer too. She’s young, brilliant, beautiful, passionate. She’s the wife of our only nephew, who lost his cherished sister to cervical cancer nine years ago. Again, I hear my own sister say, “Oh, she’ll be okay. Everybody gets breast cancer.” The words sound different this time, like a prayer instead of a dismissal. How will….? How can…? The space between us is filled with unanswered questions.

My therapist listens, has little to say. I wonder what she thinks of me. Cruel? Ignorant? Selfish? Crazed by circumstance? Hours later, I realize I feel a little better, having said such terrible, terror-laden things out loud. Instead of repeating them in my head over and over, my thoughts are moving on to the next thing now, as they should.

* * *

It’s been a year. The doctors say I’m doing fabulous. My husband remains in remission. Our nephew’s wife recently received similar news. Isn’t this when nearly everyone around us forgets what happened? When we all go back to our normal lives?

That fallacy designs to comfort but cannot succeed. We have changed. Our bodies have different limits. Our thoughts explored new pathways and turned forever away from others. We are reminded of this each day, when we tire too soon, when a task befuddles, or a word lies beyond reach. When our medications stare us down.

We have today. We have those who stayed by our side to offer treatment, a casserole, an ear, ice chips, prayers. We will be at the party, though we might leave early. We will host the dinner, though we might ask for help preparing it. We’ll cherish your company on a walk, though our pace might be slower than before. We will remember we are blessed to have the blissful days and will bear the fretful ones as best we can.

We are the lucky ones.

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