Did you know there are a lot of websites that give advice for telling others you have cancer? Do’s and Don’t’s. How do you feel about it? How much do you tell? Whom do you tell? One site, modified in 2016, actually reads, “Remember that you have control over how far you want to spread the word.” No. You really don’t. Especially not in this age of social media. And, maybe that’s really ok. Preparing for the conversations, writing notes, weighing and measuring words—It can exhaust me. It can also empower me. That seems to be my choice. So I do tell it—to anyone who wants to listen. Because it is part of my Story, the Story of Deb. And we should each tell our own stories, in our own way.
So, here’s some of the medical stuff. In December, the breast center called and asked me to return for a repeat of my yearly mammogram. There was a bit of what she described as a wrinkled tissue in my left breast. The follow-up mammogram and ultrasound confirmed what the radiologist had spotted, and a biopsy a couple of days later confirmed cancer. The “lobular carcinoma in situ” (LCIS) was estimated to be less than 7 mm—-yes, 7 millimeters. My surgeon said it was incredible the radiologist even took note of it. Even more incredible, while aiming for that microscopic tumor during the biopsy, they pulled back tissue from a second even smaller tumor. The smaller one, invasive ductal carcinoma (IDC), is the nastier one. It isn’t happy wrapped in its own little cocoon, it insists on spreading. I read that about 80% of all breast cancers diagnosed are IDC—but being in good company doesn’t really help when the doctor calls with the news.
I love the image of eagles who sense a storm coming, and set their wings in such a way that the winds of that storm carry them higher, and they soar in the calm above. My next storm is surgery. It may not be the most popular of choices, but I will meet this diagnosis in a most radical way: a double mastectomy. The expectation is that the reconstruction can happen during the same procedure, so it could be a very long surgery. I leave that choice to the surgeons in the room, who will decide what is best for me long term, using all the information they get during the mastectomy and biopsy of the lymph nodes. Save what you can, just save my life. For me, there’s something very peaceful about being in the middle of something that is totally out of my control. There’s a calm that comes when I find that release. I’m not in denial of the storm, I simply prefer the calm above.
It’s hard to explain and, understandably, hard for some to believe, that I have chosen to go through this experience with as much joy as I can find. Gilda Radner wrote about her cancer diagnosis, and she said that she could go through it laughing and dancing or kicking and screaming, so she chose laughing and dancing. I love that! I choose that too.
I told my husband that the way we choose to go through this will have an unmeasured effect on our family, especially our girls. So I’ve tried hard not to dwell on the unknown and the fears that can bring. And I promise that I am not unaware of how truly lucky I am. My mom survived breast cancer, but my dad did not survive glioblastoma, brain cancer. I’ve been in the room as friends and family shed their human skin after cancer ate all it could of their bodies. But I try to take every day as it comes to me, and fight the battle that is right in front of me, and not the many that can dwell in my imagination. When I do that, I find the Peace. And once I find the Peace, the Joy is very near. My kids will remember that. If they ever have to face this themselves or with someone they love, I want them to be able to point to this time, to me, and say, “Yes, it is absolutely possible to find joy and gratitude in all things.” It isn’t always easy. But it is, always, possible.
To get the word out to some of my closest girlfriends about my diagnosis, we threw a party! We called it the Bye-Bye Boobies Party. My house was filled with family and friends, food and wine, lots and lots of flowers, pink cocktails. We laughed and played silly games and ate boobie shaped cake balls. We did talk about my upcoming surgery and recovery, but mostly we celebrated early detection. We even collected money to send to a local organization that provides mammograms, biopsies, and other resources to women regardless of their ability to pay. When I collapsed into the bed that night, exhausted, I only had one thought: Thank You! And what a special feeling it is to be facing a scary diagnosis and surgery and the biggest thought in my head is Thanks.
I know, there are days are ahead where joys will seem hidden. I will have to peel away layers of fear, pain, drugs. But I will—I will peel, or claw and scratch my way through all that blocks me from finding the joy in this, because the joy is there. Joy. Not so much Happiness. I’m not happy about any of this. I’m not looking forward to having parts of me amputated and replaced with other parts of me. But it is here—right in front of me. And I have to go through it one way or another. So I set my heart and mind on the Joy.
I set my wings to catch the winds and rise above the storm.
