Stages

I’ve done a lot of self-reflection over the last year.  I’ve questioned whether or not I would share
this story. But I am  a writer and a
storyteller at heart, and I guess the time just feels right.

Last spring, on April 7, 2023  I was diagnosed with Stage 1 breast cancer-
invasive ductal carcinoma, a tumor of almost 2 cm in my left breast.

Ironically, I had turned 50 two months prior and had felt
the most confident and comfortable in my body than I ever had in my adult life;
or maybe ever.

Most websites say that about 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed
with breast cancer in their lifetime.  Up
until this point I had passively ignored the “it can happen to anyone” train of
thought, and so when it did happen to me, I experienced a kind of shock.  I remember the day I got the phone call it was
opening night for the high school’s theater production of “Les Miserables.” My
friend and I worked hard at helping coordinate the costumes for the cast and
were so looking forward to the show. I sat in the dark theater watching the
students perform with such passion and I was grateful for the music that gave
me an excuse to cry in public. I was hyper aware of my physical body and had
the deepest feeling that it had betrayed me. 
And yet I disassociated from my body in that darkened theater as if this
were happening to someone else. I’d only told a few friends outside of my
family, so I could be immersed in my community and just be a Costume Mom, not a
Cancer Patient. The more people I told, the more real it would become. I did
not want it to be real- I felt a small relief in the gift of denial that I
could grant myself at this point- I also didn’t want the attention or the pity
(the tilted head and raised eyebrows that preceded the “I am SO SORRY”) because
at this point I didn’t know how to react to that attention.

So for the duration of the show- 5 shows over two weekends-
I threw myself into volunteering, my job, my kids, the minutiae of daily life
so I could pretend I didn’t have to make one of the most difficult decisions of
my life.

Would I opt for a lumpectomy followed by the certainty of a
course of radiation?  Or would I choose
the more invasive surgery, left side mastectomy with reconstruction (implant)?

No matter how many friends and family you have in your
corner supporting and loving you, I’m willing to bet anyone who has to make
this decision will admit it might just be the loneliest decision they will ever
have to make.

The breast care center gave me a 300 page information book
on Understanding Breast Cancer, or some such title.  I don’t remember because I didn’t leave it
out in my sight for very long.  I skimmed
the first chapter through teary eyes and then buried the book under a pile of
magazines. I don’t think I opened it again.

Sometime after my surgery I threw it into the recycling
bin.  It was a small but symbolic
satisfaction.

Denial was a powerful coping mechanism for me for most of
the seven weeks between diagnosis and surgery. 
And it’s taken me almost a year to realize that all the emotions I went
through are clearly the various stages of grief.

I spent a lot of time crying. It didn’t seem to matter that
Stage 1 breast cancer was essentially curable and I would be able to
“put this all behind me” in a few months and “get back to normal.”  I was “an otherwise healthy 50 y.o. female”
who barely saw medical professionals outside of yearly checkups.  Now I had a Team and I was in a different
office every week: breast surgeon, medical oncologist, plastic surgeon, patient
navigator. I was sad and angry at all of it, all the time. I didn’t know how to
process what I was going through and I couldn’t be comforted by those closest
to me. All I could think of was my body is growing something that could
literally kill me.

I’m pretty sure I was rather difficult to be around.

Time has a way of gifting perspective – even for the things
you feel so strongly, swearing that those feelings will always take up space in
your body and brain the way they do right now.

My team weren’t exactly right when they said I would “put it
all behind me” and “get back to normal.” In my personal history timeline, it
has passed, it is in the past, yes. I had cancer, past tense. I
could now do all the normal things I was doing before the surgery- yoga,
weights, swimming. My physical scars healed faster than the emotional ones.

I’m still working on those.

Every day I wake up with a physical reminder- my left breast
is mostly numb, which is what happens when you have a mastectomy with
reconstruction surgery.  I had cancer.
I no longer have the luxury of ignoring the “it can happen to anyone” thoughts.
It happened to me and I have alternating MRI’s and mammo’s every 6 months now,
as well as regular follow-up appointments and a daily pill.

I was frustrated with myself for crying so much after my
surgery.  I received plenty of good news,
like I didn’t need chemo, and the implant settled in and no corrective surgery
was needed. And I knew I should feel happy, but I couldn’t summon that.

There was a reason I started sobbing when I was getting IV
prepped for a routine colonoscopy 6 months after breast cancer surgery.  I was embarrassed because I was a Grown-Ass
Lady in for a procedure so routine it bordered on Boring.  But I was suddenly taken back to my surgery
date and the terrifying hours before I would lose an intimate body part and
wonder if I would ever wake up from the general anesthesia. When the nurse
named the PTSD out loud, I would understand that later as a gift.  That I could look back at myself with
kindness instead of frustration.

When I was first diagnosed, I heard the word “lucky” a lot:  Lucky they caught it early, lucky it didn’t
spread, lucky it wasn’t aggressive.  I
didn’t feel lucky.  Lucky would have been
Not Having F—king Cancer in the first place. I was sometimes disproportionately
angry (on the inside) when someone told me how lucky I was, even though (on the
outside) I felt I had to smile and nod and agree.  I actually carried that with me for a long time.

Maybe that’s why it feels right to share this story at this
time. The urge to punch something when someone says I’m lucky has
passed.

Lucky isn’t my diagnosis. 
Lucky is where I am in my life- that I occupy the same time and space as
those I call friends- my Mom friends, the friends who are family, and the
family who are friends. I’m forever grateful to the beautiful humans who
organized and contributed to a meal train for my family so my husband could do
all the other things while I sat on the couch feeling sorry for myself.  I mean, Recovering. To everyone who reached
out with a text or a phone call, or sent flowers, cards, comfy PJ’s and socks,
or walked my dog, I had every intention of writing proper thank you notes to
each of you.  Well, you can see how that
went. So Thank You, from the bottom of my heart. I am lucky to have you all in
my life.

Maybe it was luck that the one-year anniversary of my
diagnosis fell on opening weekend for the high school’s production of “RENT.”
(Costumes for this show were way easier to coordinate than for Les Mis.)
I cried unabashedly in the dark theater, but this time it was different.  I wasn’t in denial, I wasn’t keeping a
secret, and I wasn’t angry. Maybe I’d finally come out on the other side of all
the stages of grief, to acceptance.  What
I really felt, from all around me though, was Love. I felt it in the music and
the lyrics, I felt it when I watched the kids hug each other on stage, and I
felt it when my friend held my hand as I cried when they sang “Seasons of
Love.” I cried because I knew I wouldn’t be where I was that day if not for all
the love shown and shared with me over the last year. I was lucky for
sure.  But I don’t measure in luck. I
measure in Love.