As we sweep away the final remnants of pink that have come to symbolize October, I realize that I am three years past my chemo treatment that started October 16, 2008. I’ m still here—that makes me a “survivor”—but what does that mean?
I don’t know why some of us survive and others do not, no matter how fiercely they may fight. There are those that face devastating battles, which leaves me feeling I am in no position to complain. My case was merely a case of sniffles in comparison.
To be a cancer survivor means I have been blessed with another day. It doesn’t mean I’ m safer than anyone else. It doesn’t mean the risk is over. It doesn’t mean another cancer can’t attack at any moment.
I am angry that I “did everything right” and got cancer anyways, but that doesn’t minimize my appreciation of the endless miracles in my life.
Being a survivor does mean I have a greater respect for life. I was given a second chance, and I am grateful for that with every breath. And I educate—even nag—others to trust their body, recognize when something is not quite right, don’t delay testing and get screened regularly because we don’ t really know who is at risk or why.
There is a lovely line from a short prayer that asks, “May the stream of my life flow into the river of eternal love.” I don’t remember where I first found it, but it touched me so deeply that it forever surpassed the multitude of prayers I was forced to memorize in school.
It reminds me that moments of our life are like the infinite droplets in a stream, mostly unnoticed as they rush toward the river of experience that is our life. But every now and then we are splashed with a moment that becomes an indelible memory, part of the story that ultimately defines us.
When cancer flooded my life, it was not without significant splashing moments.
The moment in 2005 when I found “a lump.” The tiny, hard kind you read about in all the “how to do a breast self-exam” flyers.
The kind you hope you’ll never find.
The moment when realized I was not separate from the women around me, uniformed in our blue exam gowns as we sat in the radiology waiting room, trying to pretend it was just a routine office visit. United by the fear that our bodies may have turned against us, we waited.
I wondered which of us would remember that day as “The Day I Found Out . . . ”
The moment when my tests came back clear—when they said it was simply scar tissue.
I felt released, relieved and invincible.
And three years later, after a routine mammogram, when the nurse brought me to a consult room, where I waited in the eerie glow of light boxes and diagnostic equipment.
The doctor entered with a warm smile, sleek black hair, and looked much too young to be giving me advice. He said it still looked like scar tissue, but had changed a little and I might want to consider a biopsy.
I was afraid a needle biopsy would hurt and I wanted to stop worrying about the lump. Put me to sleep, take out the whole damn thing. Let’s be done with it.
I remember a groggy post-op grin to my smiling surgeon who said everything went great, see you in two weeks. At the follow up appointment I actually asked him to cut to the chase because I was late for work. Exam, smiles, it was healing beautifully. Yeah, yeah, let me out of here.
No one suspected cancer, none of the tests hinted at malignancy. I had no family history of breast cancer. My family’s life expectancy is a hundred. I had a healthy lifestyle and a positive attitude.
No cancer for me. Can I go now?
He looked down at my file. “Well, it’s cancer.”
The stream of my life roared over me like a tsunami. He patiently delivered his speech on the early diagnosis, favorable prognosis and treatment options.
All that tumbled around my mind was, “Blah, blah, blah, it’s cancer. Am I going to die? Will I lose my hair? Who will see my patients? How will I pay my overhead?”
