Breast Cancer Is NOT a Pink Ribbon

Photo by David Jay - The Scar Project

Shortly after I had sent out the story about my surgery, one of my niece’s wrote, “Wow! Craziness. You, a cancer-fighting rock star!”

It was a huge compliment and I took it that way. But the reality is, I don’t want to be a cancer-fighting rock star. I don’t want to be a poster girl for breast cancer. I don’t want to have it, live with it, fight it or sometimes even write about it. It's just too hard. And there are many people, who are much more eloquent than I, that are waging tougher battles against this killing machine.

I feel like I have a mild case of the flu compared to their life-and-death struggles. But even a mild flu can turn into deadly pneumonia and my particular brand of 'flu' has yet to show the length of its fangs.

I’m not Bono! (I wish I were, but I’m not.) It’s not up to me to write anthems for people to rally around. There’s this very pretty pink ribbon out there already. It’s clean, it’s pristine, it’s safe. There are no eight-inch scars stitched across this ribbon, ripping it in half. There is no blood dripping off of the ends, forming pools on the ground. Millions are rallying around this symbol and that’s fine by me... 
Except that it’s not!

Breast Cancer is NOT a pink ribbon!

Photo by David Jay - The Scar Project

Cancer is having your breasts cut off – a jagged surgical scar forever separating sections of your chest.

Cancer is clumps of hair falling off your head - every time you shower and every time you delicately brush that beautiful, thick stuff you hardly remember existed.

Cancer is having your internal organs so hacked up there is very little left for you to live on.

Cancer is setting off Geiger counters at border stations and throwing up from all the destructive chemicals injected into your fragile body.

Cancer is a silent killer stalking each and every life-giving organ, through lymph and blood.

Cancer doesn’t play fair and cancer doesn’t care. It thrives on those screaming in pain and forces you to stare death in the face – day after day after day.

Cancer can feel like a curse. But it is also a great gift!

Cancer is also other people’s arms, holding you up, hugging you close even when it hurts.

Cancer is family and friends (and some people you hardly know) sending you cards, notes, flowers, emails, handmade gifts, books, food, anything they can just to encourage you.

Cancer is someone saying they love you when you feel most unlovable.

Cancer is your husband doing the dishes without complaining, frustration furrowing his brow as he watches you struggle with debilitating pain.

Cancer is friends travelling long distances just to be with you.

Cancer is a million prayers to Our Creator, asking Him to put right this wrong. 
Cancer is knowing He will work it all out for good in the end.

Cancer is feeling His presence so close, His light shining in the depths of a suffocating darkness no other light can penetrate.

Cancer is trusting, despite the unknown.

Cancer is telling God He can do anything to you, anything at all to your body, if it is ultimately helpful to even one other soul.

Cancer is the strength of those who love you - giving you the courage to face surgery, chemicals, and a forever changed life – things you could never face in your own strength.

Cancer is a heart of gratitude for all of these people and all of the undeserved love that overwhelms you each and every day.

Cancer is a battle you can’t possibly win on your own.

Cancer is like being a ring-bearer - the bearer of The One Ring - a millstone around your neck; sapping your energy, driving you mad. You know the only way to rid yourself of it is to destroy it. The trip, then, is to Mordor, to throw this Ring into the fires of Mt. Doom.

Frodo: I can’t do this Sam.

Sam: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out all the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. They meant something, even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going because they were holding on to something.

Frodo: What are we holding on to, Sam?

Sam: That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo...and that it’s worth fighting for.

Breast Cancer - My personal journey to the heart of Mordor

Breast Cancer! Two words I never expected to hear. My family had a history of leukemia, and I was convinced I would die of this, but the very idea of breast cancer was unimaginable.

They were words even my doctors avoided saying out loud.

I believed I had one whack of an infection. It wasn't possible for tumors to grow that fast...was it? I had felt a hardening in my right breast at the end of January. I put it down to hormones (they rule the body)! There was a slight discharge from the nipple - nothing I was overly concerned about. But less than two weeks later, a lump the size of a lemon grew over a weekend. That got my attention.

When I went for my mammogram, (just in case this wasn’t an infection) no one was prepared for what happened. The attendant took the first image squeezing my right breast from the top down on a glass plate. I didn’t look down until she came beside me whispering, “Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry if I hurt you.” There was a pool of blood covering the glass. The young woman began freaking out. She moved me away, gave me a clean towel for my breast and began disinfecting the area as if I had AIDS.

There was one more image to be taken and as she moved me into position we both realized this would not be good. She asked me to hold the towel against my breast for as long as possible. But the metal plates, squeezing my breast sideways, were brutal. It left another, larger pool of blood, on the floor.

She was apologizing, cleaning, disinfecting, changing her gloves again and again. I found myself trying to help her calm down. I hoped the lump was just filled with blood and that they had squeezed it out. But as my hand instinctively went to my breast, it was still there...larger than life.

We looked at the mammogram together and she indicated translucent white threads that filled almost a third of my breast.

“We need to have a better look at what’s going on in there,” she said.

By the time I got to the ultrasound, word about me had spread everywhere. As I bared my breast so the technician could put the thick gel all over it, I explained there might be some bleeding.

“Oh, I’ve already heard all about it,” she retorted, like it had been broadcast over a loudspeaker. “None of the doctors have ever seen anything like this.”

That stopped me cold. Fear crept in. These doctors worked with women who had breast cancer day in and day out. None of them had ever seen this before? What was I dealing with?

As I was puzzling over these thoughts she clucked her tongue. 

“What do you see?” I ignorantly asked.

“I’m not allowed to tell you anything,” she said. “The doctor will talk to you afterward.”

But she became kinder, letting me know I was doing really well to stay so still. Then she looked at my chart and said, “You mentioned this lump grew in a matter of days. You were kidding about that, right?”

I stared straight at her, “No I wasn't. It grew in a weekend.” She just shook her head and clucked her tongue again. 

It was then I knew. At that moment I began praying for strength, and courage; for no tears in the face of this. The world was spinning the wrong way and I just wanted to get off. When she began taking images in my right armpit, I closed my eyes and prayed harder.

After the doctor had walked in, said “Looks like a suspicious lump,” and abruptly walked out, I asked the woman to show me the images and tell me what made this tumor different from a cyst. She was happy to do so and explained that a cyst would have been dark, even at the core. This tumor was translucent with beads that looked like pearls around the edge. Beautiful but deadly. It was sobering.

I walked outside in a daze and called Peter. He was in a jovial mood asking how it went.

“Not good,” I said. “I have breast cancer.” It was the first time those words had been uttered.

“WHAT? Seriously?”

When he arrived, a few minutes later, there were tears in his eyes.

We hugged a long time. Later, he told me he would love me with or without breasts, and with or without hair. I had married the right guy! I knew that all along of course, but his response, in a moment like this, spoke volumes about his character and about our relationship.

My GP called the next day, after she received a copy of the ultrasound, and matter-of-factly said, “So, you’ve got cancer. We need to get some more tests done quickly.”

Chest x-rays, a bone scan and abdominal ultrasound were scheduled for next week. They would all be on the same day. They wanted to see how aggressive the cancer was and how far it had spread.

I was stunned. Trying to grapple with this diagnosis, that nobody would admit to until I had a biopsy, turned my world upside down. I would never be the same again and my life was about to head into uncharted waters.

Peter had a photo assignment and wanted me to come along. I was swamped with journalistic stories and normally I would have stayed home and worked. But trying to concentrate was impossible and I just wanted to be with him. I needed to enjoy some time with the man I loved more than life itself.

I always believed Peter was strong. Peter copes well with anything (except computer problems). Peter has walked me through 25 years of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I knew that if I died, it would be tough on him, but he would cope. I didn’t think it would be devastating to him at all.

But when I saw how wrecked he was by all of this, I knew I had underestimated the impact my death would have on him. He was rocked to the core.

When he was working on his last few shots, I sat in the car watching the spectacular sunset, enjoying every moment of it.

When he stashed all his gear and sat down, he took one look at the fogged up windows and joked, “Were you breathing?” I smiled weakly at him and replied, “In a few months you won’t have to worry about that anymore.”

We just looked at each other smiling at the black humor, but realizing this could very well be our new reality.

Thus began my trip to Mordor and the fires of Mount Doom, carrying this heavy burden around my neck. Soon I would tell my family and friends and this motley group would join me in my journey, coming to my aid in ways I couldn't even imagine...