The World Would Be a Better Place If

We Treated Each Other As Cancer Patients

The best of times, the worst of times. This is how I describe my year of breast cancer diagnosis and treatment. Dickens may not have known about cancer, but he understood our human nature and the contradictions inherent in life.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way…A Tale of Two Cities

Welcome to the emotional roller coaster of cancer. And everyone else on the ride is just as scared as you are. And when we’re not scared, we can feel a little pissed. They, like you, never signed up for this involuntary trip down malignancy lane.

The congenial smile you wear as you enter a building marked “Cancer Center” for the first time belies the utter terror you’re feeling. But collapsing in a puddle of tears in the foyer and assuming the fetal position would make a scene so pull yourself together as best you can. Is it possible to pass out from fear? I ponder.

I wish, I reply to myself. Wake me when this is all over, wouldja?

You hear in your mind the Cancer Coaster ratcheting as it climbs up, up, up. You’re at the top of the coaster now and it looks like a helluva long way down. It is fucking dark. It is the worst of times.

Wait. There is a voice speaking. “Let me worry about the cancer,” it says. It cuts through your fearful reverie.

It is the oncologist. I am in the exam room with her and she is reassuring me. She places her hand over mine. My eyes start leaking.

Her medical expertise is second to none. But it is this moment of human kindness that has just lit a birthday candle in the darkness. It casts a small light, but it is light.

Maybe I really CAN get through this. There’s still doubt, but this positive thought feels a little empowering.

“This is treatable. Our goal is to get rid of it and keep it from coming back,” she is saying.

Tears are now freely flowing. But they are tears of relief mixed in now. Not complete relief, but I’ll take what I can get, thank you very much.

Would you please repeat that?

She does, patting my hand for emphasis. I see her lips moving but the words still feel distant.

There is hope. This is an “old lady” type of cancer. Slow and lazy. You may not even need chemo. (Spoiler alert, I did need chemo.)

Hardly the best of times by any means, but by the time I leave the building, I am calmer. The Cancer Coaster didn’t slam into the earth or spit me off into the stratosphere.

The drive home is surreal. The treatment plan is taking shape and my turbo charged nerves are settling down, just like my pink sisters told me they would. Many told me the stage between initial diagnosis and treatment plan is the hardest. And they were spot on.

I had already found an online forum on Facebook and felt the rush of support surrounding me.

You’ll get through this, they tell me. I’m 15 years cancer free. You are not alone. Sending you love. I understand what you’re going through.

Emojiis are sprinkled through the thread of comments. Praying hands. A flexed arm muscle. Hearts. Lots of hearts.

…it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity…

I can’t believe I am going through this. It’s lonely as hell, but I look around and find I am not alone. How can this be? I don’t even know these women, but here they are, supporting me.

The calendar fills with appointments. And my bookshelf is now filled with books on breast cancer. I want to put new covers-NOT PINK- on the books because a simple glance at that damn color reminds me:

Breast Cancer.

I.have.breast.cancer.

This is especially annoying when you are actually having a moment of NOT obsessing over cancer. But then that damn cover catches my eye like a pink strobe light of doom.

There’s not much time to process the emotions during the treatment phase. The doc gave me an anti-anxiety prescription, but I don’t think it does much. I am earning a charter membership in the Worry Hall of Fame. Yay, me.

My reflections bring me back to present day.

Treatment is over. (Well, aside from Tamoxifen.) And yes, I DID make it. I am still here. I am cancer free.

…it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…

The healing work continues. And my tribe of pink sisters is more important than ever to me because none of us heals in a vacuum. We need connection.

And there is nothing like sharing the same traumatic diagnosis with others who have experienced the same.

You see this comradery among military war vets. They are instant friends.

And this is what it is like in the world of breast cancer. I’m not fond of the battle analogy with health issues, but there is a sense of being on a battlefield with these sisters. We are foxhole buddies.

The few meetups for breast cancer survivors I’ve attended so far felt like a gathering of old friends. Hugs, smiles, tears, nice-to-meet-you’s abound.

Me Too stories are shared. You were stage two? What type of chemo did you have? Did you do radiation? How many years since your treatment?

When I hear of someone being 10+ years cancer-free, a deep longing wells up… I want that to be ME. And once again, ole eye faucets are flowing. Some feelings are so visceral there really is nothing you can rationalize away… it simply must be felt.

If you didn’t know the backstory, you’d think we were all medical professionals given the fluency of the medicalese spoken.

This sense of connection can happen randomly as well. We call it “meeting a flattie in the wild.” (Flattie-those of us women who choose flat closure over reconstruction.) Or one may notice the small surgical scar by their collar bone. Ah! They’ve had a port! (I called mine the Borg Implant.)

It is magic. We are connected by a sacred bound, a bound granted by: cancer. It’s a mindfuck of epic proportions.

We celebrate together. (YAY! You finished chemo! Your scan was clean!) We grieve together as we remember a sister who passed. We laugh sometimes. We teach one another.

The generosity of these women inspires me. Out of their deepest fears and pain, they bring forth gifts.

Like the women who set up and maintain Facebook breast cancer communities. Or another gal, a researcher, who bird dogs the latest in breast cancer research. There’s another sister who brings her quirky sense of humor and never fails to make me laugh.

Another gal is creating pillows and comfort items for post-mastectomy recovery. It has grown into a big deal. There is an army of women sewing these items. Then they send out hundreds of boxes to newly diagnosed women each month. At no charge.

We are all from different walks of life. Different ages. Different beliefs.

But yet we share a heart connection. It is the human experience.

I am convinced that this short time we have on earth is a training ground to learn how to love and be loved. Taking these difficult experiences and allowing them to transform us is deep spiritual work.

My heart ponders: What if we all treated one another as fellow cancer patients/survivors? What if we handled one another with more gentleness and patience because we know that person is going through some really scary shit?

What if we could see the emotional scars that we all bear? Could we be more kind when we get behind an asshole driver? What if we knew they just got out of a devastating doctor appointment and, yeah, their attention isn’t what it should be? What if we listened more deeply for understanding? (Instead of formulating our reply to what we think is being spoken.)

This isn’t just New Age vision casting. The truth of the matter is we are all afflicted with a fatal disease.

It is called life. The human condition.

And as Ram Dass put it, we are all just walking each other home.

The challenges to get to this place, however, are legion. Especially with 24/7 media blasting us with us/them narratives, fueling suspicions, stirring fear, and highlighting all that is wrong. (If it bleeds, it leads, right?)

The other challenge is, well, that person in the mirror. Self-righteousness is a sneaky bastard. Who me? Asshole? I would NEVER do something like that!

Um, yes, you would, given the same circumstances and background. We all have an inner asshole.

Maybe this is part of some redemption of cancer’s aftermath? We realize our bodies too can be an asshole and turn on us. Fucking malignancy.

We awaken to the reality of life’s brevity. Oh, we all give lip service to “life is short”, but then we go back to our somnambulant ways. There is nothing quite like facing your mortality because of a potentially fatal disease.

Climbing the social ladder is no longer a priority. Some young moms simply want to see their children graduate high school. We want more time with loved ones.

Accepting our lack of control over things beyond our control is terrifying at first. Then it is freeing. But it is key to navigating cancer’s capricious ways if we’re going to maintain any sense of peace.

I wish it didn’t take a cancer diagnosis to deepen my conviction in these matters. Like every other person who has had a cancer diagnosis, I did not sign up for this.

And until there is a cure for this dreadful disease, we will do our best. To navigate our own journey, and hopefully help others along the way. And to live whole-heartedly, as best we can. The best of times, the worst of times… both times are best spent with one another because the only thing worse than suffering, is suffering alone. And we can multiply and share the joy in the best of times.

This is the healing we all need individually as well as collectively.

PS Just another reminder: You Are Loved.

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