My Breast cancer journey
My husband told me often that I am just adding to my story. I told him that I am done adding to my story. I have been through enough. But, God had other plans for me....
*** Warning*** This is not a pity post but it is a true look into the mourning process of a cancer survivor. It is a compilation of my thoughts after reading books and hearing from friends who are fighting similar journeys. :) My doctor told me a few months ago that the months following treatments are extremely difficult when it comes to fear, anxiety, and emotions in general. I find that when I get alone and have time to think, that is when it begins to consume me. Most of the time my life runs at ninety to nothing and I don't have time to dwell on what is really going on in my body so I guess that is a good thing. This morning as I was soaking in a relaxing bath, I began thinking about the mourning process of a cancer survivor. Several months ago, a fellow friend, who is also going through a similar breast cancer journey, shared with me how she struggles with the mourning process of different elements of life before diagnosis, hair, health, body. Just as we mourn the loss of a loved one, we also mourn the loss of our identity. It is almost as if we have lost ourselves and don't know if we will ever regain or even see a glimpse of how we used to be. The identity that we have known for 40 plus years has been permanently disrupted and hacked to bits, literally. When I speak of identity, I don't only mean our personalities and who we are as a person, but also our physical selves. Yes, a cancer diagnosis changes who we are and how we grasp ahold of life, but it also opens up an unwanted chapter of loneliness, fear, anxiety, and a negative physical perception of ourselves that is extremely tough to conquer. I am not at the conquering part yet. I honestly think that it will take years for that to happen. When I was told that I had cancer, it rocked my world. Every thought imaginable came and went. One of the biggest struggles that I had to deal with was getting past the thought of losing my hair and the possibility of losing my breasts. My surgeon and my oncologist are huge proponents of conservative breast treatments IF the cancer is caught early, stage one and two, and IF there are no genetic mutations linked to the cancer. Mine was stage two, but I was told that if my genetic testing came back positive that I would have a complete mastectomy and possibly a hysterectomy. I did not want to lose either and struggled for quite a while with the thoughts of losing my identity as a woman as I waited for over a month for test results. The phone call finally came saying, "There were NO genetic mutations found...congratulations.... " I cried. I was very happy to hear the news. But, honestly, I have struggled quite often with knowing whether or not conservative therapy was right for me. I have asked LOTS of questions in order to get reassurance from my doctors and they have provided every statistic possible. But in the scope of things....part of my identity was taken from me from the very beginning. Number one being my good health. I can no longer say that I have no worries. I will never be able to. I always have to be on the lookout for new "lumps and bumps". And then, there are the scars. I had three surgeries, leaving three scars across my chest. There is an indentation and a few creases in my breast from the removal of so much tissue. Do I feel beautiful? No. I don't. I can't even begin to imagine losing my entire breast. I admire those who have had to take that route. And then there is my hair....another friend of mine was talking to me yesterday morning. She is also going through extensive chemotherapy for a different kind of cancer and was talking about how hers has turned white from the chemo, but she has not lost any of it. She was joking about being vain because she covers up the white with color. But again, it is not vanity. Different forms of treatment, different outcomes, but we are both mourning what we have lost in ourselves and are trying to grasp it back however possible. I had to gear myself up for the loss of my hair. My hair has always been something that has somewhat defined me as my crazy self. I have always been a sort of shy person, but loved playing around with different hairstyles and colors because it helped bring out that minuscule part of me that yearned to be wild and rebellious. I was devastated at the news that I was going to have to take chemotherapy and was sick to my stomach at the thought of going bald. Aside from my breasts, my hair was such an integral part of my identity as a woman. After my first treatment they told me that it would be around two weeks before my hair would start falling out. My worst nightmare was to find handfuls of hair on my pillow or dropping at my feet in the shower. Because of this, I had my sister-in-law cut my hair into a short pixie cut just about a week or so before I knew it would be coming out. This is when I finally let go... I pep talked myself into holding my head high and owning it. I knew that if I didn't own it, I wouldn't want to leave my house and I would be miserable. Almost to the day, my hair started shedding as I was getting ready for my second treatment. That evening my husband looked at me as I argued as to why I shouldn't shave
My point in all of this is not to whine and tell the world how bad that I have it, because, honestly, I consider myself quite blessed. I am here and alive. But, I want to gently try to explain that even though treatments are over, the journey is far from over. As a friend put it, we are expected to "FIght Like A Girl" as we are battling our way through pure exhaustion, nausea, burns from radiation, etc. We put on a smile to look strong and fist pump when we talk about being a fighter and overcoming the hard part, but inside, the struggle is very real. The fight has only just begun. Treatments are over. Now, we wait. We wait for two years, five years, ten years to pass with NO recurrence. We wait from this test to that test. And, we wait for our identity to come visit us again. Will it? Maybe to an extent, but will it really totally come to stay? Be an encourager. Be a prayer partner. Be understanding. Love...Love...Love.
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A lot of thoughts have traveled through my mind over these past few weeks as I am approaching the one year mark of when all of this craziness started. My family and I go to Orlando every Christmas season to spend time together. It is a place that we hold dear to our hearts. It symbolizes a place of comfort, peace, love, and relaxation. Last year at this time, I knew my lump was there but had pushed it to the back of my mind for a while so that I could enjoy my Christmas season. My husband and I had talked about it and I knew that when we returned home, I was going to have to confront it face to face and have my doctor look at it. Just a few days after the new year I was scheduled to go in and talk to my OB-GYN about some lab work that I had had done. I had already talked myself into taking this moment to have him feel the lump and see what he thought it may be.
I remember that day oh so well.... I had gone back and forth over the past couple of months over whether or not this was something to be concerned about. There is a lump there...there isn't a lump there...I feel it...maybe I don't feel it....I was sitting in the lobby of the doctor's office, sick to my stomach from nerves. I can't totally put into words the way that I felt. I think I knew deep down that it wasn't good, but I was hoping for any consolation possible from him so that I wouldn't obsess over it and lose my mind. I went into the exam room and was pep talking myself so that I wouldn't chicken out of telling him about the lump. I was shaking and internally arguing with myself. As he came into the room to talk to me, I pushed the words forward and told him that I needed him to check this out for me. He examined me and told me that by the way it felt, he thought that it was just a benign cyst. He went ahead and scheduled a mammogram and ultrasound and was extremely reassuring that I didn't need to worry. Two weeks later I was in the diagnostic center getting my mammogram and ultrasound and it all began to become reality. The doctor there that read my ultrasound was very cold and quick. He pulled no punches. They handed me brochures about biopsy procedures and sent me straight over to my surgeon's office to schedule a biopsy of the mass. After I went over and got the date set, I remember sitting in the parking lot, calling my husband, scared out of my mind. To that point, I had not made a big deal out of everything and went to all of my visits on my own, but at that moment, I told him that he would have to come with me to the rest of my appointments because it was getting really scary. And, of course, he did. Just a few days later, I had the biopsy done and it came back clear...yes, I said CLEAR. We went ahead and decided to remove the mass anyways because it could obstruct the view of future masses that could develop. On February 5th, I had the mass removed, not realizing that my life was getting ready to come to a screeching halt and change forever. A week to the day, after calling and calling for the pathology report, I received a phone call at work from my nurse. Her first words were, "Where are you? Do you want the news over the phone?" I told her yes and at that moment before she even had to say anything more, I knew.... "Pathology is pretty sure that it is cancer. They are running a few more tests, but are fairly certain that your mass is cancerous." I packed up and went home.... The unknown was staring me right in the face, eye to eye. The inside of my head was a static mess. Every now and then I would hear reality trying to communicate with me, but I couldn't focus. I couldn't speak clearly. I wasn't thinking clearly due to fear and anxiety. I was miserable. My husband would look at me and I would cry, not once, but several times a day. The darkest hour of my journey was sitting on my shoulders and suffocating me. But, little did I know, that one of the greatest learning experiences was ahead of me. A quote from the book , What Cancer Cannot Do by Phyllis Ten Elshof, stood out to me today as I was reading. It said: "Life in God's reign is kaleidoscopic in nature. We try in vain to picture life's next scene, while grace is at work resetting the stage." Philip Gulley One year ago, I was an emotional mess. Today, I am a changed woman. I have learned how to take lemons and make lemonade. I have learned to look at the negative and find the positive. I have learned that no matter who we are and what we have done, God LOVES us and will carry us through anything. Did I want cancer?? NO! But, I can honestly say that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this journey is supposed to be used as a huge part of my testimony and, now that I am on the other side of the sidewalk, it is my job is to share it. "This is the day. This is the day that the Lord has made, that the Lord has made. I will rejoice. I will rejoice and be glad in Him, and be glad in Him. This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and me glad in Him. This is the day. This is the day that the Lord has made." Within the first two words of hearing this song, my heart did a flip, tears came to my eyes, and I began singing with her. My grandmother used to sing this song to me quite often growing up. I remember being in the car with her and my cousin and us singing it to the top of our lungs many, many times. This song is how she has lived every day of her life and how she has taught me to live mine. Even after believing for years and years, questions have surfaced during times that I have felt alone, cold, and unheard. It is normal to question. We are creatures of proof. We are creatures of reliance on our five senses. When we can't see, touch, taste, hear, smell, we don't believe or we ask for affirmation of some sort.
The only thing that I knew to do from day one of my journey was to pray and to do it unceasingly. I prayed in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening, when I was laying in bed, driving in my car, standing in the shower, eating, watching TV, watching my kids play sports....my heart was hurting and I needed answers. I didn't feel worthy enough to even ask for help but I did it anyways. And you know what? He answered. Honestly, never in my life have I felt Him as much as I have in these last several months. He answered. He answered. And, He answered again, again, and again. I called on my prayer warrior friends to hold me up in prayer as well because I knew that I could not do this alone. I needed everyone to step in as my intercessors. I was humbled to learn that not only friends, but also friends of friends and people who do not know me were lifting me up in prayer from here to thousands of miles away. Me...piddly ole' me...They took the time out to pray for MY comfort and healing. They prayed for not only me, but also my family. One of the most inspiring moments of prayer for me was back in February as I was getting ready to be wheeled into surgery to find out if the cancer had spread to other parts of my body. My anesthesiologist walked into my room to give me the run down of what was going to happen. He is a rather tall man and very young. He and my husband had been kidding around with each other about being fans of rival NFL football teams. He was super nice and had an extremely gentle spirit. I was a mess. I was still in the period of the unknown and was worried that the cancer was in other areas of my body. After he finished talking to me, he caught me completely off guard by asking me if he could pray with me. I quickly obliged and when he began to pray, I was brought to tears. His words were just for me. He prayed for the will of God to be done in my life and for healing. HIs words were for MY situation. It wasn't a typical blanket prayer, but extremely intimate. I was sobbing by the time he was finished praying and proceeded to share with him what I had been dealing with emotionally and thanked him profusely. He lit up my day and helped to calm me. It was just a couple of hours later that I found out that my lymph nodes were clear. God had answered my prayers. Emotionally, that was the day that I finally went from emotionally fragile to let's do this mode. I knew what I was dealing with and was ready to finally face it. Prayer is our lifeline to God. One thing that I have learned through all of this is that no matter what you have to say to Him, He is there to listen. I have cried to Him, screamed at Him, begged of Him, and just simply thanked Him for who is and what He has done for me. And, although we may feel like He is not there and isn't hearing us, He is. He is doing a work just for you, even when you don't know He is doing it. There is no way that I can deny that He exists after all of this. I have literally felt so encompassed by Him at times that it feels like someone is behind me, holding me in their arms. He has spoken to me, given me guidance, and has sent others to me with words of encouragement that can ONLY be from Him. The day that I received my final diagnosis, I received a message from a long time friend that I haven't seen in years. As she was reading my Facebook post that day, she felt God nudging her to send me this word: "Jenny, as I read your recent post the Holy Spirit reminded me of the time He healed your womb and blessed you with your beautiful children. He told me to let you know He'll do it again. He is still our healer and you still have purpose." I knew then that I would be just fine. Yet I stand amazed in awe and wonder at what He will do for ME, even when I feel like I am not worthy. Thank you Lord for who you are and for your amazing works of grace and mercy. I love you and thank you for loving me with love like no other. |
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