Hope is on the Horizon, October 2010
In 1999 I was 35 years old. I was on top of the world. I'd just finished law school the year before, ranked #10 out of 332 students. I was working in a prestigious position for a judge. I was 35 for God's sake, the world was at my feet. I felt an odd lump in my left breast. Despite knowing about breast cancer, I ignored it. In a few months I noticed it was not getting smaller. One day I realized I could see the outline of it through my skin.
Surely then I did something about it, yes? Of course I did, I squeezed it and poked at it and didn't leave it alone. It was very close to the top of my skin, so when it got to the eventual point where a bit of creepy white goo squeezed out of it, I decided it was some kind of weird big round hard pimple and I continued ignoring it. A few months later, at a boring, dull, uneventful routine physical with my regular doctor, I casually mentioned I had this weird pimple thing in my breast. A week later I heard the four words "You have breast cancer."
I remember my surgeon continued to talk after she said that. I know she was talking because I could see her. I had stepped into a fog, my eyes clouded over, the bright sunny room darkened. My surgeon took a lot of time with me. We sat on a lovely floral sofa. She held my hand. She drew pictures, she explained options, and she gave me a paper that said to report one week later for a second surgery. I heard none of this. The next thing I knew I was walking to my car, saying to myself, "Well, I guess I don't have to worry about planning for retirement."
Once in the car I turned on the radio. There was some special breaking news report about something going on in a school, in place called Columbine. I remember thinking, "So what. . . . I have breast cancer."
The next thing I remember is a week later. I was laying on my sofa, seriously regretting taking a Percocet. Apparently about 90% of people feel really good when they take those. The other 10% feel sick and dizzy, wanting to very much crawl out of your own skin. That was me.
A friend of a friend called me. I really didn't know Nancy at all. So many people were calling, and I was tired of answering the same questions over and over again. Sometimes I felt like I had to cheer my friends up, not the other way around, and I was in no mood to be cheerful. I don't remember what all those calls were about. I remember only one call from that whole time. Nancy's call. Essentially a stranger, she said few words, but I will remember them forever. "I just wanted to let you know that I had breast cancer 8 years ago, and I'm still here."
Soon I was contemplating how I was going to tell my parents about this. I am an only child, but I didn't start out that way. My brother was killed in a car accident in 1987, and now I had to tell my parents that their only remaining child had breast cancer. In the days that followed I debated just not telling them. They lived 4 hours away, how would they know? I could maybe get through treatments and never have to tell them. I called my mom, told her to sit down, and blurted out that I had breast cancer. I don't remember her reaction to that statement.
What I remember about that summer is that my parents went ballistic over my weight gain. Every time I saw them they complained that I ate too much. If I just simply ate less, I wouldn't be so fat. Relatives got involved. Thanksgiving was hell, with several relatives asking me repeatedly, "What happened, you used to be a real skinny Minnie." I kept thinking, why don't they believe me that the damn medication that is keeping me alive is causing this weight gain? The choice is to live fat or die. I wondered if they'd rather I die, because that's what it sounds like to a cancer patient when the people who are supposed to be the most supportive are complaing about how you look.
I was a size 4 when I was diagnosed. I gained 41 pounds, I went to a size 14. And I gained that weight in a span of less than 8 months. It was utterly, completely, entirely, devastating. I was always the cute little one everywhere I went. Every time I saw someone I knew before breast cancer, I would see the look. The judgmental, self-satisfied, downright mean, talk behind your back, look that people give you when a thin person gets fat. I call it the "Wow, she really let herself go" look and they genuinely seem happy about it. I was embarrassed and humiliated, and I wanted to crawl in a hole every time I went outside. I gave up trying to explain that breast cancer medication caused me to look this way. I felt that no one believed me anyway.
It has been over 11 years since I've gained that weight and nothing short of surgery will take it off. I'm not willing to undergo surgery so I live with it. I can bench press my body weight. I can kayak 70 miles in one day. At a size 4, I couldn't even cross the street without driving because I was so unhealthy. I smoked, I ate junk, I was obsessed with being the little cute one and I did anything to stay that way.
My dad died last year, he never stopped complaining about my weight. I changed my reaction to his comments about my fat, because I realized the only thing that was going to change during this process was me. When I show up at canoe races looking like I've never seen the inside of a gym, it is my greatest delight not only to beat all the women, but also to beat most of the men. I've learned that the drive and determination is what counts. I know who I am and what I can do, and you can go right ahead and misjudge me when you look at me.
Breast cancer teaches you to change your reactions to a lot of things. One of my favorite phrases has become "thanks for your input." When people find out I had breast cancer I often get some very strange reactions from those who have no experience with cancer. Sometimes I will hear "you're so brave." Brave people run into burning buildings when the rest of us are running out. Brave people are not going to radiation and chemo. People going to cancer treatments are doing what they need to do just like people who take their insulin every day are doing. There is nothing brave or heroic about cancer treatments, but thanks for your input.
There is the inevitable person who wants to tell you about someone they know who died of breast cancer. They are delighted to tell you and the story is always something like this, my cousin's second wife's receptionist's who she used to work with had breast cancer and she died a gruesome horrible death leaving twelve little kids, nine dogs, and a ferret behind. The celebrity death stories are the best. When someone famous dies of breast cancer I can guarantee you that I will have at least a dozen people ask me if I heard that the famous person died of breast cancer. In 11 years I've never had anyone so anxious to tell me about somone who lived from breast cancer but thanks for your input.
And there are some comments that just leave you scratching your head, I think my personal favorite is my mother in law. She asked me, "Do you think you could have gotten it in Africa? You got all those shots when you went to Africa, why didn't you get one for breast cancer?" Um, thanks for your input.
I remember all the waiting. Sitting around waiting for a decision as to when you can start radiation is agony. I knew that the incisions had to be completely healed before radiation could start. 33 treatments over the span of 7 weeks. I waited a week. Then two more. Then another. Waiting. I wanted to be doing something, anything, to get rid of this cancer. To me, waiting is not doing something. No amount of convincing from the surgeon that I was actually doing something, which was healing my body from two surgeries, helped make the time go any faster. What the heck do you do with yourself when you're supposed to be waiting? I continued to not plan for retirement.
Breast cancer teaches you that you are not special. The world sees and feels your boobs. First you get 8 little tattoos to mark the path of the radiation. A rather invasive process, having someone stab your breast in 8 different places with a needle that is going to leave 8 permanent tattoo marks. For me having 8 permanent tattoos felt like a reminder that would never end that I had breast cancer.
Then you get to have them draw on you every day. Black X's, green lines, red circles, blue crosses, and you're not supposed to wash them off or they just have to draw on you all over you again. You can't wear deodorant. And once the radiation burns set in, you can't wear a bra either. In the heat of August, I felt ugly, bloated and fat, no bra, no deodorant, and with bright blue crosses painted all over my chest, and I was going to work in a conservative court house for a prestigious judge. There was no bravery in this daily routine, it was filled with a deep horror of what I used to look like and what I now looked like.
The radiation technicians change daily. They leave the room where you are laying on a bare metal table and radiate you via TV monitors in the next room. Different people every day touching your breasts, arranging you on the table, drawing on a personal area, and watching you on a TV while they drink their coffee and have their lunch. And then they tell you in perky voices that you're doing great. Thanks for your input.
I felt awful, I looked awful, I was tired, really really tired all the time. I had no self confidence, I hated looking at my fat, ugly self in the mirror. But things change when treatments are over. I changed.
Things are what you make them. I have 8 permanent tattoos on my left breast. Ever get into a conversation with someone about people who have tattoos? Look at me, do I look like the kind of person who would have 8 tattoos? Ok, so they're little tiny blue pinpoint dots that mark the spot where I had radition, but I love winning a bet with someone that yes indeed I have 8 tattoos.
I'm lucky to have had breast cancer. No, that's not a mistake. I did not say I'm lucky to have survived breast cancer, after all, the alternatives to not being a survivor don't look too good. There is no question that the words "you have breast cancer" will change your life. The only real question is, in what way will you let it change your life?
I realized that today is someday. Everyone has a someday. It's the day where your life will change because someday you're going to do something. Someday you will be pretty enough, good enough, thin enough, deserving enough, have enough money, someday something will happen and you will do something. You will travel, you will accomplish something great, you will fill in the blank someday. When is someday anyway? For me, someday was the day I finished cancer treatments.
Someday I was going to use the sterling silver place settings that my mom bought before she was married and then she gave them to me on my wedding day and I kept them locked away. I asked my mom why she'd never used the silver. She said she just didn't have a special occasion. She bought the silver in 1948, it was 1999 when I asked that question. I asked my mom if she was waiting for the queen mother to arrive. I had a party for myself the week after I finished treatments. I realized I was good enough to use that silver and I've used it every day since.
Someday I was going to learn how to fly a plane. In the early 80s I watched the movie Out of Africa. There is a scene in the movie where Robert Redford flies Meryl Streep over the savannah. In the mid 90s I lived in Africa. I've been to that savannah. I learned to fly in 2001. I was scared. When it came time to solo, I took longer than any other student, I was too afaid to solo. My instructor literally had me pull over on the runway, he jumped out of the plane, and told me to go. He knew I was more than ready, I just had to believe in myself. Part of accepting a new body, accepting that today is someday, is that you face the fear and do it anyway.
Someday I was going to clear the clutter and stuff out of my house and live cleanly, simply, and not value myself on the value of my things. I haven't had clutter in my house in many many years. It was a slow and painful process to realize how much money I wasted on things but it was an awakening to what was really valuable, my life and feeling alive and not being weighted down by possessions. I drive a minivan, I live in a tiny little house, and I often get asked why don't you drive a lawyer's car, why don't you live in a lawyer's house? My wise guy answer is generally, because I don't want to pay for them. The real answer is because I now value myself more than what I drive or how many bedrooms I have.
Someday I was going to have a job that I loved. Someday I was going to close my private law practice and not work 50 hours a week. I closed up shop. I work for Delaware County's Office of Support Representation. I sleep at night knowing that I do good for the children of Delaware County. I'm a prosecutor, I prosecute parents who don't pay their child support obligations. In other words, I make grown men cry for a living. Can you get a better job than that?
Someday I was going to be the first woman in the world to race the 70-mile General Clinton in an ICF kayak. This is not a traditional kayak, it's a sleek Olympic racing boat. 17' long and very narrow and tippy. It took me two years to learn how to paddle one. I wanted to be the first woman to do the General Clinton in an ICF kayak. I can't tell you why, I just did. Someday. This year, Memorial Day was someday and I finished last in the 70-mile General Clinton, the longest single day race in North America, but I finished, and as the only woman in the world to do it in an ICF kayak.
Sometimes someday doesn't work out the way you want it to. The Michigan120-mile AuSable Canoe Marathon is the longest non-stop canoe race in North America. The race starts at 9:00PM, yes that's 9:00 at night, and goes all night long and well into the next day. I did not know the volume that 10,000 screaming spectators could create. When the gun went off the spectators went wild, even for those of us at the extreme back of the pack.
All night long we paddled, and all night long spectators lined the shores of the AuSable river. All night long, at every twist and turn, bonfires burned and people were screaming our names and cheering us on. In the AuSable Marathon, it doesn't matter if you are first or last, and we were darn close to last all night, the spectators treat you as a celebrity. This is the Daytona 500 of canoe racing and I was thrilled to be a part of it. Adrenaline was my friend.
49 miles into the 120-mile race and is a crucial cut-off. You have 7 hours to get to the Mio Dam. 4:00AM is the cut-off time. As my canoe partner John and I were coming toward the dam in our canoe, alone in the dark, damp, and cold, we heard a man's booming voice echo out slowly, loudly, and clearly, "You - have - three - and - a - half - minutes." Given the distance between us and the bright lights of the dam, we did not know if we had enough time to make it. We gave it everything we had. I crawled out of the canoe on my knees and as John and I pulled the boat up on land, 100 spectators went wild. We made it - with just two minutes and one second to spare!
I was floating on air as we portaged the boat over the dam in the darkness of 4AM. Once back in the water, we knew the rest of the cut-offs were easier. We felt good, we felt strong, and we were well on our way to a prestigious AuSable finish.
And then my left wrist started to hurt. We'd been paddling continuously for 7 hours, we'd just hauled a boat up and over a big dam, it felt like I just had a little kink in there that needed worked out. But as the miles went by, the pain got worse, there was an electrical spark inside my hand. My middle two fingers went numb. My index finger started to go numb. The electrical shock feeling got bigger, running down into my forearm. It felt like I'd grabbed an electric fence.
I pushed on, telling myself that pain is temporary, pride is forever, but sadly, merely an hour after making the crucial Mio cut, with my voice wavering from pain, disappointment, and heartbreak, I had to say, "John, I need to get out." Several hours later I was at the emergency room at the University of Michigan Hospital in Ann Arbor having a soft cast put on a swollen wrist with a diagnosis of a severely compressed median nerve.
As a breast cancer survivor, I'd rather try something and fail than not try at all. It's the act of trying that's important. Face the fear and do it anyway. Several people, including my mother, told me I shouldn't try AuSable again. I thanked them for their input. Today is someday. I have 8 tattoos. And I'm still here.