Life After Cancer

Much Obliged

In January of this year I was diagnosed with Her-2 positive breast cancer. Only six months later, after eight rounds of chemo and two painful surgeries, I was pronounced cancer-free. To go from such a dismal diagnosis to such a striking declaration in so little time is nothing short of phenomenal.

I’m grateful to Dr. Sam Mazj and my kind oncology family at Feather River Cancer Center. I’m grateful for my incredibly skilled and competent surgical teams at Stanford. I’m grateful to Enloe Hospital for their care during my hiccups along the way. And my gratitude to my friends and family for their over-the-top support is truly inexpressible.    

. . . In Order to Form a More Perfect Union . . .

I hope it is possible for me to describe some of the not so wonderful aspects of my post-cancer experience without tarnishing that gratitude. I am especially mindful of those who are still suffering with cancer, and of those whose loved ones didn’t make it to the other side of cancer as I have. I approach what I am about to say gingerly, yet I am committed to recording my genuine story, and this is definitely part of it.

Enough preamble.

I Thought Beating Cancer Would Be More of a Pick-Me-Up than It Is.

Our culture assigns unequivocal labels to those who have lived through cancer: Warrior, Forever Strong, Hero, Brave and, of course, Survivor. Lately I’ve been trying to figure out why I don’t feel any of those titles.

One obvious reason is that I didn’t do anything to deserve such lofty titles. I didn’t choose cancer. I didn’t particularly fight cancer. I put my trust in Dr. Mazj and I showed up on the days they put cancer-killing drugs into me. I endured the side effects. They told me I needed surgery so I got it. What I can take credit for is having a pretty good attitude throughout. For some reason it is harder for me to remain positive now. Weird, right?

Perhaps it’s because to everyone else, my journey is over. My cancer-free pronouncement is five months old already. I’m healthy and I should be nothing but grateful. But there are things that cancer took away from me that I haven’t gotten back yet (besides the two obvious ones, eulogized here).

For one thing, I still have port hardware installed in my chest wall for the purpose of receiving infusions of Herceptin every three weeks for five more months. It is a drug sometimes referred to as ‘Chemo Lite’ because it doesn’t cause hair loss or nausea. But I think it might contribute to the cumulative effect so famous in regular chemo because I still experience ‘Chemobrain.’  I have difficulty focusing. People joke about the aging phenomenon of getting up and going into another room only to wonder why you’re there. This happens to me All. The. Time. I double book myself. I have trouble finding the right words in conversation (yes, me!), and I forget to do important things—picking holiday songs for my music students to sing at the winter concert, for example (duh!).

Plus, my body is forever changed. There are positives to the changes, for sure. I appreciate my flat tummy and more manageable breast size. But I have to say my new bosoms remind me of 2 Timothy 3:5, “having a form of [breastliness] but denying the power thereof.” The rest of the verse applies to the effect they have in the bedroom: “From such turn away.”

I still have some surgical revisions to undergo to restore said breasts to breastliness, as well as to fix some odd puckers in my abdominal scarring. But because these surgeries are strictly cosmetic, they’re somehow shunned from the cancer journey. I’m supposed to keep quiet about them the way one does when one has an elective mommy makeover. I’m not saying I’m unhappy with the decreased level of sympathy. I’m saying it’s awkward. I feel compelled to remind people I had cancer in order to justify the plastic surgery. Then (at least in my perception) I am met with “Get over it already. That was ages ago.” I feel like I’m really supposed to be moving on, but I can’t quite, and then I feel guilty because that seems terribly ungrateful of me.

And finally, perhaps the worst aspect of my cancer being ‘over’ is that I’m very afraid it’s not over. Two of the vibrant, beautiful, generous women in my stake whose funerals were held this year started their cancer journey with Her-2 positive breast cancer like me. They both had periods of remission like me. How can I rest easy and bask in gratitude when the proverbial other shoe could drop at any moment? And yet, if it does eventually drop, won’t I regret having spent even one moment of my remission time worrying that it might? That’s hard to control.

Looking a Gift Horse in the Mouth

When I first learned of my cancer diagnosis and had such an amazing outpouring of support from my friends, I knew I couldn’t ever ask “Why me?” To the contrary—I was a good candidate for cancer because of all the support I had available to me. But now I do ask “Why me?” with regard to how easily I came through it. They tell me that’s called survivor’s guilt. I guess it’s a real thing.

The word HOPE is used a lot in the arena of cancer. My treatment was superbly successful and amazingly brief so I ought to be the poster child for hope. But then why is there a tug of war going on inside me? Why is it so hard to embrace the fruits of my hope?

Is it to do with my reluctance to attribute my successful journey to prayer or blessings? I fully believe I received strength and comfort from knowing people were sending good will heavenward for me, but I cannot in good conscience claim I was healed because of those prayers. Everyone with cancer has friends who pray for them. How arrogant it would be for me to assume the prayers of my friends and family had more clout. I can only say that I believe Heavenly Father knows the reason I was able to heal even though I do not. The hope I cling to now is that his wisdom will be made known at a later date.

In a Nutshell

I thought after cancer I’d be all, “I’m going to live life to its fullest; I will make every moment count; I won’t do anything that doesn’t feed my soul or advance my goals!” But I lack stamina. I’m often depressed. My sexuality is gone. I spend a good deal of time playing Sherlock and Sudoku. I do love my new teaching job, and of course my family is a priority and source of joy, but I lack the resolve and determination I thought automatically came with the title ‘Survivor.’ Anyone know where I can get some of that?

A set of lyrics from a song I used to know just came to me. They represent what I hope my attitude can become when this cancer journey really is over:

“All I ever wanted, all I ever dreamed of, 
Everything I hoped, and all the things I prayed for
Couldn't hold a candle to what I've been given,
I've been given what I need.”