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The first time I had breast cancer, in 1993, I thought I'd die. Everyone around me thought so, too—especially people who knew people who'd died of it.
My mother tried to console me, saying, "The further you get from this, the safer you'll feel." But I didn't believe her. Two years later, my physician ordered a bone scan after I complained of nagging hip pain. Its results revealed a suspicious spot on my hip bone that indicated the possibility my breast cancer had metastasized.
In the anxious days that followed, I shared my worries with another cancer survivor who told me how she coped with worry. "I saved a couple extra chemo pills," she said. "Whenever I feel anxious about a recurrence, I pop one." We both laughed, but something eased within me. I suddenly recognized the need we cancer survivors have to battle one of the disease's most invasive side effects: the fear of its return.
Thankfully, after my physicians identified the hot spot on my scan as a stress fracture, not cancer, I vowed to slip the grip of fear by making the most of every cancer-free day I had. I'd make more time for people. If my daughter, son, or friends called, I'd drop what I was doing to talk with them. I'd say no to projects I once enjoyed but were energy drains. I'd stay on a low-fat diet for health reasons, but allow an occasional indulgence, such as a hot-fudge sundae. I'd get more sleep, read better books, spend more time in prayer. I decided to see cancer not as a death sentence, but as an invitation to live.
Then an abnormal mammogram in May 2001 indicated I had to take on my foe again. While round two of breast cancer initially knocked me for a loop, I wasn't down long. My systems for coping were already in place. Here's what has helped me—and can help you, too, if you ever have to face breast cancer or know someone who does.
Don't rush the process.In my grandmother's time, a malignant breast lump meant unconditional surrender to what followed. A woman might awaken from a surgical biopsy minus the lump, breast, axillary nodes—even chest muscle. In addition to facing an ugly slash and hollow where her breast had been, she coped with minimized movement, increased risk of infection, and painful swelling in the adjacent arm.
By the time I was treated for breast cancer, things had changed. Thanks to women's advocacy groups, enlightened surgeons, and a host of studies, the radical Halstead, described above, had been replaced by a modified radical, which leaves the muscle intact. In many cases, women are offered the choice of a mastectomy or a lumpectomy plus radiation, in which small lumps are excised with cancer-free margins.
The first time around, I wasn't given a choice. The size of the lump in my left breast (3.8 cm, or golf ball-sized) eliminated the lumpectomy option. Fortunately, my mastectomy was justified by the results: In addition to the primary lump, the pathologist reported two others, plus "abundant fibrous breast tissue showing fibrocystic alteration." Five of my 16 lymph nodes were malignant, meaning I'd have to have six months of chemotherapy.
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