Divorce and Chemo Are Not Unalike

In the Lessons They Teach Me

Lucky me. After my 32-year marriage ended up in a wood chipper, I received a breast cancer diagnosis. The diagnosis came five weeks after the ink on the divorce decree dried. Not that I should have been surprised at this unfortunate turn of events.

I knew my marriage was in trouble for years before infidelity gave it the final heave ho over the cliff. And the cancer? Well, that lump is probably benign, but let’s get you back in a few months for a deeper look.

Reflecting on these past few years has made me realize that there are a lot of similarities between divorce and a cancer diagnosis and treatment.

First, I knew something was off. The marital dissonance was growing. I was desperate to heal things, but didn’t know how. I got my ass into therapy and found a marriage therapist. I was grateful he agreed to therapy.

There was another thing growing during this time. It was a fucking tumor. I could feel the little sucker nestled just under my left nipple, but kept reminding myself it was probably benign. (Most lumps are benign.) The doc said, “Come back in 6 months” and we’ll take another look.

Taking a further look into matters revealed my breast tissue wasn’t the only thing that was dense. I had no clue what was being played out right underneath my naïve nose.

After the diagnostic mammogram five months later, I will never forget the doctor’s sober face when he tells me, “It is picking up a blood supply.” I don’t think it takes a nursing background to realize this is not good news.

Diagnostics in the marriage were slow in coming. It took several months of what seemed to be useless marriage therapy before I finally got the unvarnished truth. At the behest of the therapist, he confessed.

My marriage had turned malignant. And right smack dab in the center of my heart, there was a growing tumor of infidelity.

So, what exactly does one do when they get a cancer diagnosis or they learn of their spouse’s unfaithfulness?

You have a fucking nervous breakdown. That’s what. But you can’t do it for very long, as life has a way of marching on. So, you must pull your shit together and face your darkest fears.

After the tears, the screaming, the anger, the terror, and a few bottles of merlot, you must look into the eyes of the beast. You must sit with the agony.

Cancer. Infidelity. Divorce.

Hardly items to put on a bucket list. But there it is.

Deeper diagnostics continued.

Not only did I have a tumor in one boob, the other breast had a small constellation of baby tumors, sprinkled through my breast like Orion’s belt. (Oh look! There’s the NorthStar pointing to chemo!)

After D-Day (That’s “disclosure day” in infidelity recovery circles.) I glimpsed just how bad things were in my marriage. Hindsight is 20/20, yes?

There is one thing top of mind after such gut-wrenching discoveries.

Pain relief.

But now is not the time for that.

We must scrutinize the tumors. What are the characteristics? Staging. Has it spread?

We must take a fearless inventory of the marriage. What is the overall health of the relationship? What was the extent of the betrayal, and I’m not just talking about sex outside of marriage or a one-night stand. I began connecting the dots with all the smaller betrayals that I had dismissed or excused, so great was the growing cognitive dissonance. (My husband? Cheat? NE-VUH!)

And now it is all out on the table. It’s time for a game plan. And it helps quiet the pain a little, or at the minimum, it distracts you from it.

The breast cancer treatment plan was boilerplate, as far as a cancer treatment goes. I was “lucky” in that the type I had was the most common and the most treatable. And it was also caught early.

The Plan: Double mastectomy, followed by a chemo chaser (hold the hair, please), and 5–10 years of Tamoxifen.

The path forward with my marriage wasn’t as clear. It took me several months of hem hawing, asking questions and living apart for several months for me to realize what I needed to do.

The Plan: Divorce. The emotional equivalent of severing a body part. This is existential chemotherapy time. The dissolution of my marriage is imminent.

Parting with my breasts was easy compared to cutting ties with the man I had loved for most of my life.

But yet it needed to be done. The strain of the relationship was affecting my physical health. I had absorbed statements like “I don’t know if I love you or if I love her” and it was showing up as a major flare in IBS and fibromyalgia symptoms.

I didn’t realize I was also growing a tumor.

And like the aftershocks of cancer treatment, the shockwaves following divorce are legion and severe. I’m not just talking emotionally.

Divorce, especially later in life, is devastating to most women economically. Especially if they were stay at home moms like I was.

Cancer leaves deep marks. Or in my case, scars that resemble the first cut through the Oklahoma Grasslands made by a westward bound prairie schooner.

Where does all this leave me now that these events get smaller in my rear-view mirror?

I must choose to heal daily. Daily, people. This is not a one and done event.

Will I allow these events to turn me into a man-hating, bitter, angry person? Or will I allow Love to transform me through the suffering I have endured?

As a deeply spiritual person, there is only one choice that is congruent with the path I wish to follow. Not to say I don’t have days of rage and profound grief. There is no shortcut through the anguish. Nor does any amount of positive thinking mitigate the very real consequences.

I chose forgiveness. I chose love.

I forgive my body for creating tumors. I forgive my wasband for the poor choices he made in dealing with his pain and its impact on me and our marriage.

I forgive God for allowing this to happen. I forgive life for being so damn painful. I forgive myself for the stupid things I’ve done. The shortcomings I brought into my marriage. And holy shit, did the bottles of wine I drank during Covid contribute to cancer growth? I don’t know, but I forgive myself for that too.

I chose love. Starting with my body. I’ve shit talked it for years. Included with this is learning to honor my emotional needs and the use of strong boundaries when needed.

I want to be very careful saying this but I also chose love for my wasband. This doesn’t mean I am hoping for reconciliation or a feel a sense of obligation to him. That ship has sailed. But he is still my kids’ dad. (And besides, I am in a happy and healthy relationship now. His name is Tom.)

And yeah, I slip up on this as well when a painful memory floods my mind.

I truly believe that our time on earth is a school for us to learn how to love and be loved. These lessons come like a package marked “suffering” from the Amazon Prime van. (I sure as hell didn’t order it.)

And while making the choice for forgiveness and love look like action per se, it is surrender that drives this engine.

Letting go of the disappointment and expectations. I must accept reality without abandoning hope for future dreams. (This is especially sobering to me as I realize if I had chosen NOT to accept the breast cancer diagnosis, I likely would have a different prognosis right now.)

There is freedom in learning to accept what is and in surrender. And it feels very counter intuitive for this type A gal.

But this counter intuitive feeling typifies spiritual work. Making peace with our inner conflicts. Learning how to hold opposites without engaging in an internal civil war. Accepting that I am both light and shadow; we are all light and shadow.

Life is wonderful and beautiful. Life is agonizing and horrible.

And damnit, you can’t pick and choose.

It all fits. It all belongs.

Cancer. No Cancer. Married. Divorce. Whatever painful situation you may be dealing with.

It’s all okay, spiritual teachers remind us.

In the scheme of things, we are all just passing through. And what we do with what is handed to us on the journey will determine how we live and what we leave behind.

Out of my suffering, can I be a lighthouse for others when their lives hit the rocks like others have been for me? Can I model forgiveness and the freedom it brings?

It all sounds airy fairy, doesn’t it?

But yet when take in the bigger picture of what seems to be a world burning down to the ground with hatred, I am more convinced than ever before.

When we learn to be vulnerable and turn toward one another in our grief and pain, magic happens. Healing happens. Connection. Ease.

It doesn’t mean the cancer is going away or that the marriage will be saved. (And besides, remember none of us are getting out of here alive anyway.)

But it brings the magic: Love. Love that can carry you through the darkest moments. I know this experientially after divorce and cancer.

I remember the wise words of the poet Mary Oliver.

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.

Dear one, what ever box of darkness you are struggling with, know there is hope. Honor the struggle. Embrace it. Invite to the table and pour it a cup of tea and listen to the message it brings.

And then, as much as you are able, open your heart to Love’s healing presence.

It is there. Ever waiting.

Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my writing in a small way, feel free to contribute to my wishlist.