My Kind of Joy

A few months after I was finished with active treatment, and my hair was finally long enough to go out without a cap or a wig, I made a comment to my therapist that the Hope that went through cancer was starting to feel like a different person.  That she wasn’t really me.  My therapist told me that feeling was a common one, and that part of my healing meant I had to work to integrate that person into who I was before and who I was becoming after, and that wholeness would mean that I had successfully moved on.

So I worked on that.  And I finally reached a point where I could look at pictures, or relive events in my mind, and know the woman in them was me.  The girl wearing the $2000 wig and feeling like some alien anchor woman, sweating and itching and dying to rip it off – that was me.  The girl in the chemo chair, watching the Today Show and seeing the world go on without me because I was too sick to play – that was me.  That strong, strong woman who let go of the man she loved because he thought that a quick text or call every night before he hit the bars with his friends was being supportive – that was me, as was the woman who grieved the ending of that relationship for far too long, blaming cancer instead of realizing that she needed to be more careful about choosing men who are worthy of her love.

So yes, I have integrated my experience, and I tell fellow survivors who are following me in the journey that they will too.  But every now and again, when I least expect it, that feeling of disbelief still hits me.  Drying my lovely long hair – OMG I had cancer.  Seeing Matt Lauer on TV – OMG I had cancer.  Realizing that it’s time to let a worthy man into my life – Holy crap!!!  I had cancer!!!!  My breath stops for a minute, my heart races and I panic.

And then I remember that I survived and that I am here today to do work that I love – helping other survivors move forward.  And I realize that the fact that every so often I am blinded by a sudden realization that I had cancer means that I no longer think about it every day, every minute.  And the feeling that follows is pride, wonderment and joy.

I would never wish you cancer, or any health issue, but I do wish you all as much joy this holiday season as your hearts can hold.  And then a smidge more.

Noise

I am sitting in my living room trying to write, while a crew of workmen literally saw through the brick around my glass block windows in order to fix the flashing.  It’s so incredibly loud that it’s hard to think.  I would leave the house, but I need to be here to wait for the new hot water heater to arrive.  I haven’t had hot water since Tuesday.  I feel the frustration and anxiety bubble up in me and it’s overwhelming and annoying.  I have things to do!  I need peace and quiet to do them.  Grrrrrr!!!

And then the light bulb - yet another metaphor for the struggles of dealing with cancer.

The noise.  It starts with that phone call you get, where a sympathetic doctor tells you the biopsy was abnormal.  There is the noise of talking, the noise of anxiety swirling in your head, that other voice that says, ‘no, no it’s not me, you called the wrong person’ and that weird white noise, making it difficult to hear or understand anything at all.  Somewhere in the distance, you hear the sound of crying.  You realize it’s you.

And then there are the noises of chemo.  The clicking and beeping of the pump that is shooting toxins into your bloodstream, killing the cancer, and anything else that gets in its way.  The shuffling of feet, and the squeaking of wheels going past your door, while another patient makes his way to the bathroom.  The happy smiley sounds that your friends and family make, trying to keep your spirits up, and the silent but very real sound you hear as you catch the eye of another cancer patient and immediately know that you are not the only one suffering.

The noise of radiation is beeping and buzzing, and the sound of holding your breath so that you keep your tattoos in line with the lasers that guide the machine.  It doesn’t take long, but in your head you hear, ‘don’t breathe, don’t breathe’ until you hear the machine stop buzzing and the tech behind the protective glass say, ‘ok, that’s it for today.’

The noise of the nurse’s voice is what you hear after surgery. “You are in recovery.  Your surgery is finished.  Are you in any pain?  Would you like something for the pain?”  And if you are lucky like I was, you hear your father’s voice telling you, “They got it all out, and your lymph nodes are clear.  The doctor said you are going to be ok.”  And you drift off into another blessedly noiseless sleep.

And if you are truly lucky, you hear your oncologist say, “You have done really well.  Go live your life and check back in with us in three months.”  You hear the triumphant voices in your head for awhile.  “I beat cancer!  I can do anything!”  And you hear the relief and congratulations of everyone who saw you through the journey.

But it’s never long before you start to hear the noise of fear.  “What if it comes back?  How can I move forward after what I have been through?  Will I ever be the same again?”

And that’s when you realize that it’s all just noise.  Hearing all that noise means you are alive.  If it bugs you, put on some headphones for awhile, but never forget the beauty of the noise of life.

Just Be

Lately, I have had a lot of people asking for advice on what to do for their friend or family member that is going through cancer.  The queries sound mostly like this:  “I want to help.  I want to send something.  I want to know the right thing to do, the right thing to say."

Here’s what I tell them.

I know how scary it is to watch your friend or our family member go through cancer, and I know how much you want to do the right thing, or say the right thing, and fix this.  Let go of this need.  There is no on right thing to do or say, and you can’t fix it.

My advice is pretty simple, just be and just do.

To me, the greatest gift you can give to cancer survivors, from diagnosis onward, is to just be with them, wherever they are.  Sometimes they need laughter and distraction. Sometimes they need someone to cry with them, or hold them while they do.  Sometimes they need someone to listen to them talk, or to sit with them in silence.  Sometimes they need all these things, seemingly at once.  To put your need to do or say the right thing aside, letting them know that whatever happens, you will be there, takes courage and strength. And it is a very precious gift that not everyone will be able to give.

If taking action is more comfortable for you, then my advice is to just do. It’s fairly simple.  If you were ill and didn’t have the energy to get through the day, what would you need? Organize friends and neighbors to cook for the family, send a gift certificate to a meal delivery service, pick up and do laundry, send a cleaning service over to the house.  Walk the dog or clean the kitty litter. Give them a ride to treatments and keep them company. Gifts of books, movies, and pajamas are always good for someone who is often homebound from treatment.  I had a friend who would call me up and say, “Get dressed, I am taking you to lunch.”  Even if you don’t send the perfect gift, or cook the perfect meal, the love and support shines through.

Two final points. 

This advice works for anyone going through any sort of illness or trauma, not just cancer. 

And on a personal level, even five years later, I still treasure those people who can just be with me, whenever the fear or sadness bubbles up.  They are one of the greatest gifts cancer has given me.

The Color of a Cure is Green

It’s October, the time of year that the whole world seems to be bathed in a thick coating of pepto bismol pink.  Now don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for those women in the early 90’s, who originated the pink ribbon, to bring breast cancer action and awareness into the public eye, raising the money that funded the research that promoted the early detection systems and developed the treatments that mean that I get to be alive today to write this blog.  The pink ribbon campaign provided vital visibility in a day when you didn’t say things like "cancer" or "breast" out loud.

But that was then, and this is now.  Women are more aware, but they are still dying.  We haven’t kicked all of the many diseases that we call breast cancer, and the color pink isn’t going to fix that.  We need a lot more green now.

It’s seems to be table stakes these days that companies must wave a pink banner or ‘pinkify’ an appliance every October, to prove their solidarity with the cause. There is a pink breast cancer banner hanging up in the lobby of my office building.  That’s nice, but what I want to know is, does the management company contribute actual dollars to breast cancer research? Each October when I pick up my Tamoxifen at Walgreen’s, it comes with a pink cap.  Really?  I am taking an anti-estrogen drug formulated to fight breast cancer recurrence.  Believe me, I am aware, and I would be much happier if Walgreen’s took the money they spend creating those pink caps and donated it to Stand Up to Cancer, or the Army of Women.  To fund actual research that will eradicate breast cancer so that no one else has to die.

Here’s the thing.  Social goodwill is great, but it doesn’t cure cancer.  What will is money, put in the hands of researchers who dedicate their lives’ work to finding a cure. So if a pink coffee maker is really the perfect accompaniment to your kitchen décor, by all means, buy it.  But if you have some actual green to spend, find a worthwhile organization, perhaps the Breast Cancer Research Foundation, and donate.  And let me be the first to say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Facing Fear

As a cancer survivor, I know that some people look at me and see this strong, courageous woman, who fought cancer and won.  I see myself that way sometimes, and I have been fond of saying that I am just not scared of anything anymore, but honestly, that’s not true.

Let me tell you a little secret – starting this new career as a life coach who works with cancer survivors is just a little bit terrifying to me.  Can I really do this?  Who am I to assume this awesome responsibility in other people’s lives?  Will I make enough money?  Will organizations give me access to their members?  Will survivors even want to be coached?  You get the picture.

I have learned over the past five years that facing fears to achieve what we want is how we grow.  It’s how I found my passion, and how I became the strong, courageous woman that a lot of people see.  But I am human and I get held back by my fears like everyone else.

This week, the universe was kind enough to remind me what real fear is.  Elevated liver enzymes in my recent blood work were enough to warrant an ultrasound of my liver.  My doctor really wasn’t all that concerned, but when you have had cancer, you can never be too sure.  Cancer in the liver doesn’t usually have a good outcome, and my world pretty much closed in on me for the 36 hours between my doctor's phone call and receiving the results of my ultrasound.  All clear, thank god, but I distinctly heard the universe saying, “Now do you remember what REAL fear is?”

Today, at the offices of The Cancer Coach, I am making a long list of everything I need to do to get this practice up and running, and I am putting the scariest things at the top of my list.  I am still a bit anxious about them, but I can’t wait to see how much I grow as I face them and move ahead.