Quit Saying “She Lost Her Battle”

RIP Suzanne Somers

What is it with our usage of war language when it comes to cancer? I cringe whenever I read those words in an obituary, but even more so now when a woman dies of breast cancer.

The breast cancer community is abuzz with word of Suzanne Somer’s passing, one day before her 77th birthday..

We all want to know: what type of breast cancer did she have?

I reflect upon my diagnosis and treatment.

For those of us in the know, we understand breast cancer comes in a few main flavors, but there are plenty of variants within those flavors. Think of those ghastly soda machines that allow you to add extra flavors to your Dr. Pepper. Diet Coke with cherry flavor? A splash of fluorescent blue razzberry in your 7-Up? Or why not mix them all in? Eeew.

Cancer composition differs from patient to patient. It’s sort of like a recipe with different seasonings added. Want extra spice in your chili? Rutabaga in that pasty?

Mine was first thought to be your garden variety breast cancer, “old lady cancer” is what the breast surgeon called it. This comprises the majority of early-stage breast cancers. It’s fueled by estrogen, is slow growing and is highly treatable.

But yet post surgery pathology found a bastard of a subtype in my recipe. Luminol B. (B as in bitch.)

So much for the “no chemo” possibility.

Damn you, luminol b and all your little malignant friends.

The news says Suzanne’s cancer was “aggressive” but I couldn’t find what exactly that meant. Did she have Luminol B?

On the aggressive menu of breast cancer options, there is inflammatory cancer or triple negative. Stage 4 breast cancer can be treated, sometimes for many years, but it is fatal.

Suzanne had been dealing with this for over 23 years. This fact alone should provide some comfort.

But instead, I sweep that aside. I want more details, dammit. I want some assurance that I can survive for another 20 years.

I want to know what she did. And what she didn’t do.

It sounds like a mix of traditional treatment but then she eschewed chemo and opted for a “natural” approach with diet and alternative therapies.

Then another realization smacks me like a frozen boot to the head.

She did everything. EV-ER-Y-THING. She was the model of glowing health. Wrote books on the health. Kept a fabulous winning attitude.

And the cancer came back anyway.

This can trigger a whole new line of anxious pondering. Do I continue with the hormone blockers even though they wreak havoc with my quality of life?

I learn of a dear breast cancer surgeon who herself has breast cancer. And in her case, she is on her THIRD recurrence, despite being on hormone blockers.

Here we go again. My head is swirling like a flushed toilet. Let the doom scrolling commence.

What type of cancer did she have originally?

I catch myself.

Oh my god, Theresa. Go for a walk. Take a breather. Stress and worry aren’t good for your health.

Does this sound like the musings of a brave warrior?

I think not. And if anyone writes an obit like this for me, I will come back as a ghost and taunt them in my spookiest voice with liar, liar pants on fire.

Theresa was brave. She fought the good fight. All while continuing to volunteer at the local soup kitchen, (no small things since cooking odors were a challenge during chemo) and knitting hats for homeless kittens.

Even though she was suffering, she nary breathed a complaint and soldiered on.

SCREEEEEEEEEH! Full stop.

Going through a cancer diagnosis and treatment is the most terrifying thing I have ever been through.

I reflect on the magnitude of the terror I felt showing up for my first chemo.

The mere act of pulling into the parking lot of the Mayo Clinic Cancer Center raises my blood pressure.

The anxiety crescendos as you walk into the building. Elevator on the left. You exchange weak smiles with the others shuffling in. Oh, you’re going to the third floor too? I am so sorry.

Are they feeling as pants-shitting scared as me?

Ding. The elevator doors open.

Welcome to the infusion center! Wig shop is to your right, ladies. Infusion center over on the Lido deck. Your activities director will be with you shortly. We have an exciting day planned for you!

Someone please wake me up from this nightmare!

But instead, you plaster a fake smile on your face and announce your arrival to the nice lady manning the desk.

How are you today? She inquires.

Oh, I’m fine considering I’m here, heh-heh.

Just bring a little levity to the cancer center. I’m just a little ray of sunshine.

In reality another part speaks up in my brain. This part isn’t concerned about pants shitting. It’s just pissed.

HOW THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I AM?! I’M HERE TO GET POISON PUMPED THROUGH MY VEINS!

But of course, it is only in my head. My people pleasing tendencies pop up.

I am concerned that my fake smile may have flickered and she witnessed a flash of my anger.

It’s not her fault you’re here, I mildly chastise myself.

A few more pleasantries, and I am invited into the waiting area behind an opaque glass door. It’s like the first-class flier’s club at the airport only there is no velvet rope partitioning the space. And there sure as hell won’t be margaritas. (Though there is a little fridge with orange and apple juice.)

By now, there is a sense of disassociation. This isn’t happening to me. I am NOT sitting here in a room with bald people staring at their shoes. I am clutching my sweetie’s hand and we sit in silence for a moment.

But then the nurse appears. “Miss Winn?” she asks. Please, Theresa, I tell her. For the fiftieth time that day, I also state my birthdate before she can ask.

My imagination flashes a picture to me. I’m at a business mixer and everyone is introducing themselves with their name and DOB.

Hi, I’m Theresa. I’m a life coach and organizer. DOB is 7/6/64.

I’m glad my goofy ADHD brain can entertain me. It’s all so absurd and I am trying to grapple with the surreal reality.

I obediently rise to my feet and follow the nurse to the cubicle where I will sit for the next 8 or so hours to receive an infusion.

Brave? I think not. Let’s not confuse an admirable character trait for simply doing what you need to do so you don’t die, okay?

I want to see my kids’ lives continue to unfold. Snuggle grandbabies if there are in my future. Maybe fulfill a few items on my Bucket List.

Oh-oh. I feel another little tangent to rant over.

I hate cancer being referred to as a “battle” as though there is a war. Do they ever say of people who get killed in traffic accidents that they “lost their battle” with a car? It’s not a battle. In my book it reads: Shitty things happen and we are all facing a 100% chance of death.

I don’t mean to diminish how one woman handles her cancer diagnosis. This is an intensely personal and lonely journey and if using a battle metaphor helps, all the more power to her.

It seemed to help Suzanne, “As you know, I had breast cancer two decades ago, and every now and then it pops up again, and I continue to bat it down,” she wrote on Instagram. “This is not new territory for me. I know how to put on my battle gear and I’m a fighter.”

Or was this her public persona speaking?

I don’t know nor am I going to judge.

I just know from my own experience that fear can shoot up like a solar flare at the most random times. And as far as battle gear, does peanut butter chocolate ice cream count?

I try to keep a positive attitude and outlook. When I can’t, I know my pink sisters will carry me. And it will be my privilege to reciprocate and encourage someone else who is struggling.

Speaking of struggles.

As of today, I started my fourth and final hormone blocker, AKA the Bitch Pill. Tamoxifen.

I couldn’t tolerate the first three. The side effects were unbearable. Tamoxifen’s side effects are less than the others, I am told.

I hope I can tolerate the Tamoxifen as I need to be on it for up to 10 years. It will cut my risk of recurrence in half.

What I REALLY want is a guarantee. But that is not going to happen.

That is the only guarantee in cancer treatment-there are no guarantees.

But isn’t that life? Maybe there’s the deeper lesson.

There are no certainties in life. Cancer snaps that truth into focus.

Learning to embrace uncertainty and live in the present moment is the only way I have found to soothe the anxiety. Might this be a type of bravery? The willingness to let go of the illusion of certainty?

I know there is an element of human resilience that keeps us moving forward. Is that bravery? Or simply the innate will to live?

I understand we are stronger than we realize and that we can do hard, very hard things.

I am also learning about the profound love and connection that germinates in the petri dish of suffering.

No, bravery isn’t what’s gotten me through to the other side of cancer treatment.

It has been love.

From my community of pink sisters, to my family, to my sweetie, Tom.

I have never felt so loved and supported these past few years. For this, I am eternally grateful.

And THIS is what I must focus on moving forward. The very essence of the universe is love, the theologian and scientist Teilhard de Chardin taught.

But yet we are like fish swimming around looking for water. Love is everywhere. It sustains us if we can be still and accept its calming presence.

It’s time for me to take a deep breath. To be here now. To love. And to be loved.

And dear reader, whatever difficulty you may be going through, know that you don’t have to brave. You don’t have to be a warrior.

Sure, take the steps you need to take. But you can just be you. Support is a mere ask away; you don’t have to do this alone. (Okay, it may take bravery for you to ask. 😉 )

Most importantly, know that you are loved.

And Suzanne, RIP. Fly dear sister. And perhaps if there’s any flabby thighs in heaven, you can help ’em out.

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.