52 weeks ago, today, I looked like this.
I was at the hospital, getting lines drawn all over me with permanent marker. I was nauseas and terrified and excited and ready to whip cancer's devious, mischievous butt. Remember that day?
As I reflect on the past year, it occurs to me that it is all wholly unfair. I think that I have taken it in stride, sometimes laughing at the absurdity of events such as "nipple failure" and recently crying a fair amount. As the reportable incidents have decreased, it would follow that my recovery would mirror the same curve. Unfortunately, this has proven not to be the case. I still think about cancer every day. I think about it in church, when I am surrounded by fertile families with their sizeable collections of children. I think about it in the make-up aisle of Target, as I search for the perfect shade of lip liner to test out how a tattoo might look. (This is a doctor recommended activity, by the way.) I think about it when my son innocently pats me on the back and it hurts ... because of the scar tissue and missing muscles. I think about it when my daughter wants me to help her ice skate and I am winded, still not in great shape due to frequent napping instead of exercising.
Since my posts from two weeks ago, I have come to terms with the fact that I am not going to get past this on my own. Depression is like that. It creeps up and engulfs you. So, I have enlisted the help of several new health professionals and have joined a cancer support group. I'm sad to come to the realization that it isn't the cellular illness making me sick, anymore. It is the emotional aftermath of trauma.
Post traumatic stress disorder and depression are harder illnesses to quantify and they are less sympathetic illnesses to support. My having cancer was shocking. Everyone felt jolted and wanted to help. I'm not sick anymore, so I should be better. But, I'm not ... and that's kind of embarrassing.
Last week, I was talking to one of the Sisters at work. She said that making it one year was hard, but it was also so wonderful. She told me that I need to focus on the good. I replied: "No. I don't think I do." It was certainly the first time in my 34 years that I have dared to contradict a nun. I agree with her sentiment. Try to be positive. You're still here and you have a wonderful family. True. But, here's the thing: being positive isn't going to prevent me from getting cancer, again. Being positive isn't going to make this all go away. What I need to do is be open and honest with myself.
Cancer is scary ... but I'm not alone.
Below are some comments from other patients who have contacted me. I find it comforting to know that my feelings are par for the course and I thought it might be helpful for all of you non-cancer people to see my world from another perspective.
“I so understand and relate to your fear of recurrence. I see myself in the mirror or shower everyday and there is my daily reminder, no right breast. I have other women ask me why do you think about it; just live. I try to do this but the daily reality is that a part of me is missing. My oncologist started me on anti depresant during treatment and I'm still take it. Does it help? Yes, but the thoughts are still there daily. I have not had a recurrence (thank God) and should just move on but it is difficult."
"I understand your fear and concerns. I have a different type of cancer, but I think that fear of recurrence is the same. That feeling of "when is the other shoe going to drop" has been overwhelming at times. I think that in some ways recurrence fear is a self-protection mechanism, trying to protect yourself from that initial shock of your first diagnosis of cancer (i.e. if you truly move on, is a recurrence diagnosis going to be as devastating as it was the first time around). For me it was hard to reconcile the fact that life was going on, my family and friends were willing to accept that I was "cured" but I carried around this burden of worry."
"I first had breast cancer in 1989 on my left breast, In 2007, I had a mammogram that was questionable, followed by an ultrasound that didn't show anything. Then, I had an MRI, which showed breast cancer again in the left breast. Do I fear recurrence? Absolutely! I am currently on anti-depressants and will continue to be so I can get through the day. . . By the way, my 2007 breast cancer was NOT a recurrence, but a new cancer --after 18 years!"
"I have a good onco doc who is very understanding of my concerns and fears and will see me anytime I need to see him about any concerns. But here is my problem. My mammogram did not find my lump, I did , 2 months after a clear mammogram. So even though I still get a regular mamogam on my remaining breast I have no faith in it at all. I check myself and have regular breast exams. But I guess in the end I feel like it is up to me to somehow know if it has come back since it was not found by the mammogram.”
"I often feel ill when I face an anniversary or landmark related to my breast cancer. I hated ending radiation (who would be like my doctors who watched over me every day?) I feel dizzy every October. ... I remember the day I ended five years of Tamixofen; I searched for just one more so that I could be sure they worked. ... I never wanted this to be my cause. I really hate pink."
"I often feel ill when I face an anniversary or landmark related to my breast cancer. I hated ending radiation (who would be like my doctors who watched over me every day?) I feel dizzy every October. ... I remember the day I ended five years of Tamixofen; I searched for just one more so that I could be sure they worked. ... I never wanted this to be my cause. I really hate pink."
I'm glad that I'm not in the operating room, today ... but I wish that I didn't know what it looked like.
8 comments:
Love and hugs to you, today and every day. Thank you for writing about your journey so openly and honestly.
XOXO
Sarah
I am so, so glad you are finally using the resources that exist for just this reason. If there are people that have claimed to get through a process like this without any professional help or peer support, they are totally lying.
I've said this before, but the people around you, the ones who you don't know but who look perfect with their giant families? They have struggles, too. Not necessarily breast cancer at age 33, but they've got burdens you can't see. In fact, they might look at pretty you and your respectable-looking husband (though we know better on that one), and your brilliant kids and wonder why you don't have to face whatever they have to face. We know better. I guess what I'm saying is, just don't let the envy eat you up, because those people are an illusion.
Love and blessings to you, Scott and the kids.
Warning: this mom had two glasses of wine before writing this post.
I wish you were in surgery and then from there would go to recovery and from there to discharge and healing.
I wish there was a payment plan with those little booklets that had a page for each month that we sent in with a check to pay for braces and tuition and camp; our insurance that you would have straight teeth and a good education. We could have the things if we wrote the check. I wish most of all that you still had the world by the preverbal tail, that nothing was denied you or the ones you love. I cannot give you those things, we mothers are not as powerful as we would wish. I can love you and hope for you and pray that All of these challenges continue to form a fabulous woman, a steadfast friend, a loving spouse, an exemplary mother and a daughter who makes me scream with pride and love that I am your mom.
Love, mom
Liz . . . .
Having not had cancer myself, I can't possibly know what you are going through, but as you share your story, somehow, I get it. It makes complete sense. In a matter of seconds, you went from knowing something was wrong but not knowing what, to knowing you had cancer, and you were catapulted through three major surgeries and a barrage of life-altering decisions, and the one choice you actually wanted--to have never gotten cancer in the first place--was the only option not available to you.
It is scary, so of course you are afraid. It is sad, so of course you are grieving. It it traumatic, so of course you feel traumatized. There isn't anything that anyone, including yourself, can do to change that, much as we wish we could.
I believe that one day you will wake up in the morning and realize that you are beginning--just beginning--to feel hope again. You may not know how or why that happened, but I am pretty sure it won't be because you tried hard enough to feel hopeful, or that you finally succeeded in talking yourself out of how you feel right now. It will just happen.
And, the best part is, you don't have to believe that this is even remotely possible for this to happen. That is what the rest of us are for . . . you are surrounded by people who will believe and hope for you when you can't yourself. You feel afraid, and traumatized, and sad, today, and that is OK. You are right, cancer is scary, and you are not alone.
Well said...and I am glad you are reaching out to other people who know and understand what you are going through. Remember that you have to take care of you and you deserve to find some sense of peace. ~XOXO
So proud of you for this.
Love,
Heather
I'm so relieved as you start this next step in the healing process. Sending hugs, strength, courage and more hugs to the entire Hewitt clan. Love ya tons.
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