Forcing strength and optimism during and after a cancer diagnosis isn’t always the answer
PERSPECTIVE | After cancer, my internal suffering pushed me to live life on autopilot
Before cancer, I knew who I was. I was 21 and living life to the fullest — studying abroad, readying for my senior year of college and preparing to take on the world. Excited and energized to write my thesis and explore what life — and adulthood — would provide, I found my voice and independence.
Everything changed so suddenly. I went to the gynecologist for my annual exam, and he fortuitously examined my neck. He lingered around my thyroid before saying, “I feel something I shouldn’t. I am sending you for a biopsy.”
I was blindsided; the biopsy showed a malignant tumor on my thyroid. Cancer. At 21, my physical health was not yet something I knew to consider. The diagnosis was a shock.
In the following months, I lived at home with my parents. My thyroid was removed, and I underwent two rounds of radioactive iodine treatment to annihilate any remaining malignant cells. I longed to be back at college with my friends and in class. My days passed slowly with my focus on doctors’ appointments and healing. Staying strong and positive seemed to be expected while fighting this fight, especially since I was “lucky enough to have a good cancer that wasn’t going to kill me.” So I did my best to appear happy and optimistic. Yet, inside, I was depressed and passed hours crying alone in my bedroom.
Because I so deeply yearned to be well, I hid the painful emotions and made every effort to keep smiling and functioning. On rare occasions, I would share with my closest friends how being isolated at home was fueling depression and sadness, but would often quickly switch the conversation to more positive topics. I was unsure of how to process everything, and trusted that the darkness would pass when I returned to college to finish senior year.
After graduating from thyroid cancer and college, I thought I would be free from the dark abyss. The truth was, by day, I functioned in my first post-college job, and at night, I would lie awake, haunted by emotional ghosts. My nighttime secret soon began to seep into my every day with panic attacks, anxiety, and crippling chronic migraines. I could barely sit through a meeting or ride in a car. I had attempted to outrun the darkness, but the unprocessed trauma eventually caught up with me.
Eight years later, I was confronted with another life-changing diagnosis. I tested positive for the mutated BRCA1 gene, which increases my risk of breast and other reproductive cancers. I was faced with the decision to undergo a preventive double mastectomy or endure the stress of frequent testing and tumor screening. Chronic migraines kept me in and out of hospitals and on a steady cocktail of prescription medications. I was in no state to make any big decisions, let alone the one to remove my breasts.
Right before my 32nd birthday in 2007, I gave birth to my daughter. Diagnosed with late onset preeclampsia, her delivery was long, intense and traumatic. Through her birth, something shifted within me. I regained trust in my body. Shortly thereafter, in light of my new role as mother, I planned my preventive double mastectomy for January 2008. Wanting to be healthy for my family, I desired to mitigate as much risk as possible. I knew my nerves could not handle the constant fear and testing around another looming cancer diagnosis.
In the aftermath of the double mastectomy, I recall driving home from a doctor’s appointment when that familiar trauma-induced anxiety overcame my entire being. I pulled the car over immediately and called my internist. I begged for help, explaining through tears that I no longer wanted to be at the mercy of the debilitating fears and anxiety. She referred me to a psychiatrist. During my first session, I was clinically diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which ended up being my best diagnosis yet. Unprocessed trauma can have recurring, debilitating physical and emotional effects. I found relief in learning that I was not crazy. My inability to function had roots and was not a self-inflicted result of me just not trying hard enough to be normal. Years after fighting cancer, I finally began to unpack the backlog of pain so I could become present and current with my emotions, and thereby my life.
Through this process, I realized how disconnected I was for years. My internal suffering pushed me to live life on autopilot, outsourcing my happiness to others, and in and out of a drug-induced fog. The period that followed was filled with many significant decisions, or “last cuts,” as I call them. They brought me back to myself. After a divorce, closing my company, moving, another painful breakup, weaning off meds and, most recently, my explant surgery in January 2016, I wanted to speak up about these “last cut” moments.
The Last Cut Project, a multimedia documentary with photographer Lisa Field, was born to foster conversation around these pivotal junctures, reframing them as opportunities for greater clarity, voice and freedom. The universal questions shared among our many diverse and unique life stories lead us to make last cuts. Talking about them creates community and support. We launched the Last Cut Conversations podcast to hear from others about their last cuts and how they have created a life that feels like their own. The second season specifically focuses on the timely subject of freedom.
In healing my own trauma and PTSD, I learned that forcing strength and optimism can deprive us of the time and space to honor the full spectrum of emotions, a process which is essential to lasting wellness, happiness and freedom. When we give voice to our experience, we heal and find support in others who have navigated similar times. The Last Cut Project became a safe, dynamic canvas for me, and others, to share our stories and give voice to the ongoing process of living a bold, present life.
