Cancer, Cancer Go Away. Come Again...um, Never!

When I was a little girl I never thought about money or the financial gyrations my parents went through to provide for me. I never thought about taxes, or insurance, or politics, or illness and disease and death.

Illness and disease and death.

Three little words, really. I know I can't ignore them or pretend that they don't effect everyone on the planet at some point in their human journey. After all, what is the saying? Nothing is sure in life except death and taxes? So why am I so bothered by them lately? Bothered to the point of wishing for the return of my childlike view of the world - a world where my mother held me when I cried, my dad worked to pay the bills, and my biggest worry was if my friend would be at home when I knocked on her door carrying my pink Barbie case under my arm.

Sleeping in blissful peace

I can't go back, but Lord knows I've tried in the last month to lock my vision on the shiny parts of life and ignore the rest.

Today I'm taking the blinders off. Here is the ugly and hurtful truth. People I know and love are going to get cancer, all shapes and forms of this dreaded disease. People I care about are going to die of cancer and die quickly in some cases. People I like and admire who have had cancer are going to relapse. I might even relapse. Ouch, that one stung but it's painfully true.

I visited the doctor today. She ordered a chest x-ray because I shared with her how I've been feeling lately. "It's nothing, I'm sure. Let's just be proactive," she said as she wrote the order.

"Yes. Let's do that," I replied as those three little words played like a scratched record in my head.

Illness, disease, death.

I'm vulnerable to this droning music because, lately, the point has been hammered home that the earth could suddenly move under my feet. Again. I'm well now but who says I'm going to stay that way? In the last few months I've been reminded over and over how fragile our bodies can be. It's left me shaken.

Since I have not asked anyone's permission to write about them I will honor my beloved friends anonymously.

Except for this one, as I now have permission. Mrs. Theresa Beauchamp lived in upstate New York. She raised a large family, giving everything she had to her children and their children. Her smile and dancing eyes lit up all the photos I've seen of her. She lifted, lugged, remodeled, and worked around her house well into old age because it made her happy. She gathered with her family at the lake and reveled in the noise of passels of grandchildren playing in the water. Late last year she was diagnosed with cancer and to her family's dismay was gone seven weeks later. I mourn her because I love her daughter, Terry, and through her daughter I see all of this glorious lady's accomplishments. She will be missed.

Terry and her mother

There is a man who loved kids so much he taught them English for many years. He loved to write. He loved to play basketball. He was the fiercest critic of my writing. I am better and more skilled because of it. One evening not so very long ago he passed out on the basketball court. He had a brain tumor. He stopped  going out and I missed the way he'd line through and scribble over my manuscripts. One Monday evening last year he showed up at a writers' group meeting. I was lucky enough to be there. Afterwards, several of us went out to eat. We talked and laughed until my sides hurt. My friend joked in his usual off color way. I was so happy to see him but I could tell he was fading. We talked on the phone a few times before he moved across country to have the support of his family. He died in December. I cried when I saw the picture of his headstone. I can't bring myself to erase his number from my phone.

Another friend is recovering from breast cancer. She seems to be as sassy and vibrant as ever but I can't wait to hug her and look in her eyes. I need to see for myself that she has come through to the other side. And yet another friend is in the hospital again, working her way back to remission and normal life.

And a few days ago, a dear friend in my home state of Georgia shared that she's been diagnosed. She's reaching out to me because she knows I will understand. I'm her big sister in cancer. If she were pledging my sorority I'd turn her around and face her toward the door with marching orders to never come back. Sadly, life is not a college campus and she doesn't have a choice in learning the secrets of the breast cancer club.

Since I have been in her shoes, I can't go on blissfully saying bad things only happen to other people. I can't say that someone else will be there to provide comfort. It's not okay if I look the other way until the crisis is over. If I put my fingers in my ears and sing la, la, la, one day I will have to take them out, acknowledge that life is scary and not at all fair. My parents knew it. Every generation before them knew it. It's my turn.

Illness, disease, and death.

Don't ignore.

Accept.

Help.

Be strong.

And, there you go. It's all anyone can do.

How Do I Tell Them?

 
After I found out I had cancer I had the strangest feeling. I liken it to Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Conversations with acquaintances became stilted and distant. The simple question we ask strangers - How are you today? - turned into a stabbing reminder that I'd be lying if I answered with the expected "Fine. How are you?"

So I would say nothing and smile warily before looking away or babble on about the price of blackberries to the well-meaning cashier at my local grocery store.

Talking to family and close friends plunged me further. Who do I tell and when? In what order? Is this the conversation where I dissolve into tears and tell my mother, who lives across the country from me, that I have breast cancer? How can I tell her when she is only a week away from a hospital stay to replace her pacemaker?

Who I told first and the details of the telling are lost in a fog of smiles, hugs, tears, and dread. I did what I had to do and quickly wadded up the moments and threw them away like letters I never wanted to read again. But there are a few memories that will stay with me forever.

I took a good friend of six years aside after a meeting and told her my news. As her eyes welled with tears, I smiled and reassured her that I would be alright. After a few minutes where she stared at me, a little dazed, and I told her the details of my illness, she said, "If you need help drawing your eyebrows on please come to me. I'll make them look very natural."  I was overwhelmed with love for her.

Soon after, my husband and I flew home to Georgia for his high school reunion. We'd attended the same school, so I knew most, if not all, of the people at the dinner. Reunions are festive occasions where we dress to impress, condense the last twenty years of news into a two minute recitation, and pray that we can match the names from the past with aging faces and bodies. I couldn't figure out how to work in the news that the following month I'd start Chemotherapy. I wanted to have fun and laugh for real, not whip out my practiced smile say, "It's okay really. I'm going to be fine."

It helped to reconnect with old friends

 Most casual conversations don't recover from the "I have cancer" bombshell. Todd and I ended up sitting at a table with a classmate who is also a breast cancer survivor. She talked about her experience in casual terms that I just could not process. To be fair, she'd been well for many years and didn't know about my problem. As she talked I listened intently, hoping to glean some wisdom without breaking down and crying into my plate of  finger food. Before the night was over, I went to the bathroom seven times. I counted.

To my right is a sweet lady (one of Todd's classmates) who passed away from breast cancer this month.

In the bathroom, I cried a little, splashed water on my face, shook out my hands to release the frustration, and gave myself little pep talks. "You can do this. Go have fun." Still, an insidious voice rose from behind me to say, "What if this is the last time you see this group of friends? It could be, you know. You could die before the next reunion. It could happen."

Then I'd start the process (1 through 7) of crying, washing, shaking, and reassuring all over again.

I waited to tell my parents in person. It was on this same trip to Georgia. We sat in lawn chairs under the big oak tree, as we often do in the summer. I don't remember what I said. I just remember the look of devastation on their faces, my stiff smile, and my repeated reassurances that I'd be fine. I had to be strong for them. Their only child was seriously ill. They needed to lean on me.

Gold panning in Dahlonega served as distraction after telling my parents the news.

That's what I mean about the rabbit hole. All of my emotions, all of my responses, all of my reactions were twisted, upside down, big then suddenly small, absurd then miraculously sublime.

I wish I'd just said to everyone I met along the way, "Good evening. Hello. I have cancer." Then zipped my lip and let the world take care of itself.

I could have been Tig Notaro. "Hello. Good evening. I have cancer," is exactly what she said when she walked on stage to perform her comedy at Largo in Los Angeles back in August of this year. She'd recently found out that she had breast cancer. It seemed insincere to do her typical routine. Her jokes seemed trivial compared to the earthquakes going on in her personal life. So she let the audience in, let them feel her confusion as she worked through the problem on stage giving an impromptu performance. I think it's the most touching dialogue I've ever heard. It's well worth a listen. This American Life did a segment called What Doesn't Kill You that featured a portion of the live half-hour show.

Tig Notaro on stage.

I never want a do over on the cancer bombshell, but if it happens I want to be as brave and forthright as Tig. God bless her. She's told the press that her treatments are going well. Here's to long and happy lives for both of us, Ms. Notaro!

The Healing Power of Pets

Three months elapsed between when I first noticed a problem with my breast and my cancer diagnosis.

April - Noticed my breast had changed shape...went to my gynecologist...had mammogram and breast ultrasound...my son, Derrick, asks me to adopt a homeless kitten....no, too many pets already.

May - First needle biopsy...negative results...doctor unhappy, orders an MRI...Derrick begs me to take still unadopted kitten.

June - MRI suspicious...second needle biopsy....Derrick brings home kitten curled up in his backpack....I fall in love.

Dusty's first picture

July - Cancer diagnosis...sentinel node biopsy...kitten owns my heart.

Dusty fit right in with our two cats. They bathed and cuddled with her, treated her like they'd given birth to her..weird since they were both male. She took to me instantly, wanting to be held, always on my lap if I was sitting, always under my feet if I wasn't. At night she slept beneath the covers curled up against my stomach.  She seemed to know that I needed her as much as she needed me.

I think of her as my cancer kitty, a little gift from God. When I listened to her soft purr and stroked her fur I was reminded that everything would be okay and in time I would be well. During the months of Chemotherapy she gave me great comfort. By the end of the grueling treatments, I spent most of my days on the couch sleeping, watching movies, or crocheting while Dusty perched near me batting at or chewing the yarn ball.

Sometimes my other two cats paid a visit and I've have three warm bodies stretched over my legs and stomach.

Harry and Domino

Oh yes, we have a dog too, an Australian Cattle Dog. He'd check on me then go to his spot on the floor at the end of the couch.

Blue

As much as I loved my other animals, Dusty was special. She still follows me upstairs every night, meowing and purring until I settle down in the bed. She weasels her way under the covers and nibbles at my fingertips until she's bored. By the time Todd is in the bed and we are asleep, she's settled into her favorite spot near my feet.

When I see how much she's grown I'm reminded that two years have passed. I am well and she is part of the reason. Science has shown that caring for a pet is therapeutic for people with chronic illness. I didn't know it then, but when I'd pet Dusty or my other animals my body released oxytocin, the same hormone released when a woman breastfeeds her child. This helped me to feel relaxed and promoted a sense of peace and well-being.

Dusty all grown up

I found a wonderful article on NPR. In the audio interview, Rebecca Johnson, a nurse who heads the Research Center for Human/Animal Interaction at the University of Missouri College of Veterinary Medicine, says, "Oxytocin has some powerful effects for us in the body's ability to be in a state of readiness to heal, and also to grow new cells, so it predisposes us to an environment in our own bodies where we can  be healthier."

I certainly needed a boost to my body's ability to grow new cells. Thank you to my pets, especially my Dusty, for helping me in my time of need. It's a win/win situation for people with pets, even if neither of you are sick. Loving an animal who loves us back (unconditionally) is tremendously soothing. We can all benefit from that!

Here is a group of children from my hometown in Northeast Georgia performing a song promoting shelter pet adoption. Save a life. Take home some love.

Adopt a Shelter Pet

P.S. At the request of someone very important to me I must add one more picture and a footnote. Harry is no longer with us. He passed in January at the age of 10. Shortly after, my daughter, Natasha, adopted a kitten she named Fearless Leader. She is a welcome addition to our family.

Fearless Leader on the left