Reflections On My Year As A Cancer Patient

One year ago today, I got diagnosed with triple negative, stage 2 breast cancer. For those who have followed my blog, you know that even though I had recently tested positive for the BRCA gene mutation, which increases the chance for both breast and ovarian cancer, this diagnosis came as a complete shock for two reasons. First, I had a CLEAR mammogram only a few weeks before, and second, the main concern of the doctors with me was preventing ovarian cancer. Both my mom and aunt were only a few years older than I am when they were diagnosed with advanced stage ovarian cancer, so the focus had really been on the pressure for me to do the preventative ovary, uterus, and fallopian tube removal surgery, and not on breast cancer.

When I got home from getting the diagnosis, I didn’t have it in me to call my friends and tell them. So I wrote an email, and immediately got phone calls (because my friends are awesome)… phone calls I didn’t answer, and wouldn’t answer for maybe a week or so, as I was dealing with the shock and grief. All of their voice messages have sat, not listened to, in my mailbox for the whole year. I couldn’t listen to them. I couldn’t hear my friends so sad, crying for me. As those messages sat there all year, I always thought I would finally listen to them on my one-year diagnosis anniversary. But now that day is here, and I still can’t listen. And I’ve been trying to figure out why.

One reason, I know, is that it breaks my heart to hear the people I love so much also be so broken hearted. My friends showed brave faces when they came to visit me during my chemo infusions, but I can only imagine that when they got into their cars, they lost it. I know I would, seeing someone I love plugged into an IV, dozing in and out of consciousness. And I know it would break my heart watching my best friends deal with the loss of their ability to have biological kids, the loss of their breasts, and seeing them without eyebrows, eyelashes, forgetting and confusing words (f*ck you, chemobrain), or any trace of vitality.

But I think the other reason I can’t get myself to listen to the messages is because doing so affirms that this is real. This happened. One of my life-long best friends told me, when she came to visit me between chemo treatments, that she was surprised I wasn’t emotional. I told her I wasn’t emotional because I couldn’t be. I couldn’t allow myself to go there, because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to get through it. And the main way I got through it was by not fully acknowledging the seriousness of the situation. I got up and went to chemo, I got up and went to all the blood tests and endless doctor appointments, I got up and got my boobs chopped off, I got up and puked, I got up and worked, I got up and went for walks or to gentle yoga when I felt okay, and, many times, I didn’t get up. I stayed in bed, I watched more Netflix and awful reality shows than anyone should in a lifetime, I watched funny movies with my (now!) fiancé. I did what was right in front of me, and didn’t think. That was how I got through it.

Now, one year since diagnosis, seven months past my last chemo, five months past my double mastectomy, and three months past my reconstruction, I guess I still can’t face the gravity of it. And listening to my friends’ voice messages would make it real.

The reality is that even though I am considered NED, or no evidence of disease, there are risks of recurrence. Unlike breast cancers that are hormone receptor positive, where women can take drugs like Tamoxifen for 5 years to decrease the risk of recurrence, there is nothing for women who had triple negative to take (although there is a trial drug my oncologist is looking into for me). And triple negative is known to be more aggressive and can spread to the brain, lungs, and liver. See, even writing this, I want to delete all of that, because I don’t want to give that concept energy. I don’t want to deal with it. I also don’t want to deal with my high risk of ovarian cancer and having to get all my lady parts out ASAP, before the end of the year (which, in my doctors’ ideal world would have be done 5 years ago). I don’t want to deal with the devastating emotional pain of the permanent losses or body and life altering repercussions that come with that surgery.

Or maybe I don’t want to listen to the messages because I want to move on with my life. I have many moments where I totally forget what I just went through, especially when I’m out with a friend having a glass of wine, or doing things that I missed so much when I was going through treatment and, at the time because of how shitty I felt, couldn’t imagine ever doing again. I’m starting to get my groove back, and maybe I don’t want to look back. My body is healing (I even got my period back, hallelujah… peace out, hot flashes!), my energy is returning slowly but surely, I’m feeling stronger and getting back into shape as I joyfully work out again within imposed limits, I’m laughing at more things, find myself cracking jokes, and I’m even bursting out in song randomly (that’s how I know I’m feeling better!).

Maybe I don’t want to listen to the messages because I feel guilty about how generously my friends, family, and even strangers banded together to take care of me…. Maybe I feel like I didn’t deserve that, and feel guilty about everything they did for me.

But, as I look back on the past year, which, surprisingly, flew by, there are a few things I AM sure of. There are no maybes with regards to how lucky I am. I am lucky to have the people I have in my life. One thing about facing a tragedy is that you see who your real friends are. Some people who I thought would be there for me disappeared (which I have come to learn wasn’t actually personal, but more about they’re own stuff), others came out of the woodwork and blew me away with their support and kindness, and friends who I already knew would be there showed up in ways that surpassed what I could have even imagined. I am lucky to have made new friends through cancer, even though I would have preferred to have met them in other ways. And, I am so lucky for my family; my mom, sister, dad, and stepparents were, and are, EVERYTHING.

I know how lucky I am to have a partner who never left my side, and who saw me physically and emotionally at my worst (and it was not pretty, let me tell you), but who still asked me to marry him after all of it. Who still wants to be with me after seeing me like that. I am so lucky to have truly experienced and learned what unconditional love from a partner is, and to have found someone to go through all of life with.

Throughout treatment, I also realized how lucky I am compared to so many others. Sure, I had cancer, but while many have to live with stage 4 cancer, my prognosis was good. Sure, I lost my boobs and my treatment sucked, but it wasn’t as horrible as what most go through. I have healthy friends and family, while there are those dealing with losing friends and family members. I have a home, while there are people who lost everything in hurricanes, fires, and shootings. And while many are struggling, I have a job I really like, and which I was able to continue doing during treatment; a job that was incredibly supportive and understanding to me during it all. A job that gives me good health insurance. I am well aware that others aren’t so lucky in that regard.

In the past year, I have also learned about acceptance. There are some things to fight, and some things not to fight, because fighting will make no difference; all it will do is drain your energy and make you unhappy. There are some things that just are what they are, and can’t be changed. It’s not so much a surrender, because I don’t want to say I surrendered to cancer or to the permanent side effects and life changes it caused, but I accept them. Spending my energy beating myself up for things I did or didn’t do in my past, and regretting either making or not making decisions in my past won’t change anything. All I have is right in front of me, today. And whatever comes up, I will deal with it, when it comes up. I have learned that.

I learned that any disaster or tragedy changes you and changes your life, and there’s nothing you can do about that. But I can accept it and do what’s in front of me to move on. And once I come out the other side of it, I can still have a happy life; it will just be a different life, a new normal to adjust to.

One year later, I am struggling to find that new normal, and am often filled with insecurity as I try to figure out who I am now that I’m not a cancer patient anymore. I thought I would be stronger after going through all of it. I thought I wouldn’t give a shit what people’s opinions of me are. But oddly, it’s worse than it was. Because I don’t have my footing on who I am, I’m wobbly and more sensitive now. I’m uncomfortable in my skin not just figuratively, but literally, thanks to these new strange boobs. And I am constantly second-guessing myself.

One year later, I’m struggling to find my purpose again, as my purpose for the past twelve months was just to get through the treatment and survive. I want to be there for, and help, as many people as possible going through their own cancer journey… but how? I want to create things, like a book, or a play, or to be back on stage… but how? And what? And when? What’s next for me? Who am I now? My whole life plan was upended in the matter of a year. The life I always thought I was going to have is no longer pertinent or attainable.

So, it’s time to create the new life, the next phase. Even though I know I get to share the next phase with the man that will be my husband, I don’t know what that next phase is yet. Sometimes I get overwhelmed and stressed thinking I have to know NOW. But like I learned through my past year of going through cancer treatment, all I know is today. All I have is right in front of me. And one day, the answer to what is next for me will be what’s right in front of me. Until then, I continue to try to be present and grateful for each day, and celebrate all the little things.