Breast Cancer - My "Wonderful Life" experience.

My husband’s warm, brown eyes looked at me over his homemade garden soup. “If you had a choice, knowing what you know now, would you have breast cancer again?”

Dinner was our time for asking tough questions. But this one was brutal. I thought about our first fears - that this was an aggressive, lethal form of cancer that might only leave me months to live. The pathology reports surprised not only us but my oncologists as well. And the second pathology report, after my mastectomy, was even better than the first. Even though the cancer was becoming more invasive, it was still classified as DCIS and had not spread outside the tumor. The surgeon removed seven lymph nodes, all of which were benign. There would be no need for radiation and, more importantly, no chemotherapy! But the results made me realize that the speed at which my surgery happened was absolutely necessary. It could have been much, much worse.

When Peter asked me this question, he meant it in a, “It’s A Wonderful Life” kind of way.

In one of my all-time favorite movies, Jimmy Stewart gets a second chance at life. When his character, George Bailey, faces bankruptcy and realizes he is worth more dead than alive, he tries to kill himself but is stopped by an angel who shows him what the world would look like if he died – how many people his life impacted.

It's been almost a year since my diagnosis and in that time I have felt just like George Bailey. The outpouring of love, prayers, gifts, visits, help and encouragement that flowed to me from hundreds of people was astonishing. It brought me to tears many times. Facing the reality of death also opened my eyes to the wonder of this world. Now every moment counts and the value of these loving relationships is a priority.

Would I willingly go through the pain and suffering of this cancer experience again so I could comprehend how much love surrounded me? So I could be re-awakened to the beauty of Creation and enjoy each moment fully?

I just stared at Peter.

“Yes!”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really?”

"Really!" 

This has been a life-changing experience.

I never want to go back to the "before-cancer" me.

But even though I gained so much, I realize I lost more than just a breast.

None of us wants to have cancer. It evokes terror whenever it is proclaimed. If a doctor tells us we have ‘it’ we certainly don’t want to know how bad ‘it’ is.

We expect physicians (our appointed gods of medicine) to heal us completely.

We run from reality, we dive into our work, our family and even our sense of humor.

This was the breast way for me to fight the mental exhaustion of seeing that constant flashing neon word.

“Cancer” was always the last thing I would think of before going to sleep and the first thing on my mind when I awoke.

But even though my physical scars have healed, the teeth-gritting pain all but a distant memory - my emotional scars still bleed, creeping into my dreams and troubling my thoughts.

It has been therapeutic to talk to other women who have had breast cancer. But, at times, I feel awkward discussing my experience as it doesn’t compare to what they have endured.

One woman I met in the past year has had breast cancer three times - each worse than before. The first was just a lumpectomy and she was declared “cancer-free.” But a year later it was back, more aggressive and invasive. What was left of her breast needed to be removed and she was resigned to rounds of radiation. The last was a radical mastectomy with a bonus - six months of chemotherapy. She had over a dozen lymph nodes removed and now has constant pain, swelling down her entire arm and needs to wear an elastic sleeve to help her circulation.

I only had one breast sliced off and seven lymph nodes cut out. I didn’t even have much swelling under my arm. My surgeon said that was “remarkable.” This woman said it was “unfair.”

My treatment was too easy. My life - never really threatened...yet. 

I feel guilt-ridden, that I didn’t have to fight harder, longer.

But what I went through terrified me.

And it could happen again. 

My breast MRI report stated I have "an elevated risk for neoplastic breast cancer," and my medical team want exams every six months.

For me (and experts say for most people) discussing your cancer experience with a trusted friend is one of the best ways to bring emotional healing. I have such a friend and healing has truly happened because of it. 

I've also found it especially helpful to talk with other women who have had breast cancer. Unfortunately, for some, it's an experience that is still too difficult to discuss.

My writing partner, Methodius, rightly said people, “...don't want to talk about it with you because it reminds them of what they have gone through either personally or with a loved one. Cancer not only divides cells, it divides friends, and family and perfect strangers.”

It’s so easy to let disease divide your friendships or define you – cancer especially so. 

I am working at using my experience to bring people together.

I refuse to let disease define me!

“Cancer” has been my wake-up call.

My priorities have purposefully changed. 

I take time away from work to watch the silvery snow swirl to the ground. 

I feed the deer that populate our property and watch, as they gather at dusk, to eat grain out of our pumpkin shell by the garden. 

I put off deadlines for a family party or a phone call from a friend. 

I take every opportunity to tell those close to me that I love them. It seems like my love for others has only grown deeper during this past year.  

Peter and I walk the sunsets through our wooded fields. 

We watch lightening kiss the ground during sudden summer storms.

We hike through the snow on the frozen creek bed, jumping the beaver dams and tracking the wildlife. 

It is exciting when Peter phones me from the laneway with one hushed word on his breath, “Moose!” 

The wonder all around has captivated my freshly awakened senses. From a disease that could still cause my death, I have been given a second life. Every day is now my first because I know it might be my last.

Breast cancer has changed me for the better, forever. And nothing will take that away.

  

Fear vs Faith

“The object of a new year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul” ~ G.K. Chesterton

…or at least some drastic changes to this old soul are in order for me in 2011.

Have you ever been paralyzed by fear? So much so that it insidiously becomes a shadowy presence beneath your waking, breathing everyday life?

It felt like fear flew out of an azure blue sky and sunk it’s talons deep into my mind and body over two decades ago. It has not let go. Even though I have fought it hard.

Have you ever had your life change overnight? Like a runaway train slam into you? I never knew it was possible until it happened to me.

I was an energetic, enthusiastic 25-year-old who was thriving in my university film & television courses, enjoying my jobs in two campus libraries and loving my church involvement. Things were opening up for me – jobs in the Vancouver film industry, fabulous friendships, new spiritual insights. Life was exciting!

In a day I went from full tilt to flat in bed. I literally didn’t know what hit me. I went from getting far too little sleep, to being unable to lift my head off the pillow. I loved my film work and was willing to take on any project no matter how rushed my schedule was ― now I could barely walk to the bathroom, dizziness, nausea and a skyrocketing heart rate forcing me to stumble back to bed soaked in sweat.

What happened? A car accident would be understandable. A case of the Ebola virus could at least be diagnosed. But day after day, my energy seeped invisibly out of every pore in my body. Fear quickly filled its placen. When lights and sounds overwhelmed me, panic attacks hit. When doctors found the beginnings of MS and paralysis, wave after wave of fear coursed through my body.

Six years and 40 doctors later, I finally got some answers. A very severe case of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS). I was bed ridden for years. There was no understanding of the disease in the mid to late 1980s, no cure, no idea what to do. But the panic attacks that accompanied my weakened state had already taught me how fear could devastate my body. And it did. Over and over again.

You can read a detailed version of my story here: http://www.lifetoolsforwomen.com/w/livingwithCFS.htm

So much more is known and understood now and I have an exceptional doctor here in Calgary. I am doing much better, most days. But as I recently tried to update my personal story, the fear returned.

When Franklin Delano Roosevelt said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself,” he already understood this well. He not only entered politics during the depths of the Great Depression, he did it paralyzed from the waist down due to Guillain-Barré syndrome.

Fearing fear itself is the worst kind of terror. So what could be the cure?

I don’t give in easily. My motto echoes Bruce Cockburn’s lyrics, “kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight,” so I fought back. Though I denied fear’s hold on me, it returned, digging in deeper. When I pushed it to the sidelines, it never failed to flaunt it’s presence in my face.  I even battled it with stubbornness, pushing myself beyond my physical limits ― just to have it thumb it’s nose at me as I lay crashed in bed. Drugs dull the knife edge and allow me to imagine those talons loosening their grip, but this only lasts a few hours. And I will not succumb to addiction.

What can release the grip of fear on my life? What had I not tried?

Over Christmas I had the privilege of hearing my niece speak at a church service. She and her husband are involved with YWAM and just back from Australia with their 16-month old son. She told the congregation how fear had gripped her when her newborn son was found to have a serious heart problem. She could not hold him or comfort him the way she wanted to. He underwent surgery before he was two weeks old. It was terrifying and she had nightmares for months. She lost her trust in God to protect him and it affected everything. As she talked about her journey ― what helped her trust again and relinquish her fears, I realized I needed to re-think this area of my life as well. It was time to pick up the sword again.

It took me until New Year’s Day to realize that sword was love. Can love cast out fear?

I’ll be back on Thursday with my plan for this year and my story of a lifelong friend that can take love the distance. This friendship may just be the determining factor in helping me face this hurdle and go the distance.

The Gifts My Father Gave Me

My Dad died 21 years ago.

I miss him.

There's something special about a father/daughter relationship at it's best, and ours was that. Even though Dad was 51-years-old when I was born, he never seemed older than my friends fathers.

When I was pre-school age, he would come during the work day and pick me up in his monster truck, lifting me high into the seat. I felt like we were driving closer to the sky than the earth. He always had time for a game of badminton in our back yard but his favorite passtime was to roughhouse with me. I soon learned to use my gender to my advantage. There were times I would cry out as if I was hurt (think of the World Cup soccer players grasping their shins when they were barely touched). My Mom would invariably call out,"Not so rough, Henry, she's a girl you know." Then I'd grin and really attack him while he would try to find a gentle way of keeping me at bay.

As I reflect on his life and our relationship, here are some of the most important gifts he gave me:

• a sense of humor. Dad was always pulling practical jokes or telling jokes at work and home. One April Fools Day when I was young, he woke me up and told me to come see the baby deer in our front yard. I raced to the window looking frantically for the fawn. Although Dad was chuckling I didn't see the humor in this as my disappointment was huge. He often told jokes in low German and though I never understood them, they made my Mom laugh.

• confidence. When I got my learner's license and my Mom refused to drive with me, Dad took over. He would take me out every Sunday afternoon near the Abbotsford airport where there were criss-crossing roads with virtually no traffic (this was quite a few years ago :). He taught me to parallel park by pounding in two wooden poles the proper distance apart. If I knocked one of them down, I did it again...and again... Once I got my license (on the first try) he made me change all the car tires and showed me how to check the oil and transmission fluid. He gave me the confidence I needed to handle car problems and flat tires when there was no one to help me.

• love of animals. This was our special secret. Mom didn't want pets. The only reason we had a number of cats (all living entirely outdoors) was because of the mice on our property. Dad was my animal ally. If he caught a mouse and it wasn't dead, he gave it to me to nurse back to health. Once it was better I had to take it into our neighbour's woods and release it there. When I rescued a wild rabbit that had been mauled by dogs, he took shifts with me feeding and caring for it. Dad and I often found baby birds stranded out of their nests and he would show me how to put them back. He was the one who talked Mom into allowing us to have a dog. Unfortunately "Tiny," our golden lab puppy, only stayed tiny for a few weeks. With a penchant for chasing airplanes, and with us being right on the flight path for the Abbotsford Airshow, Tiny was soon moved to a farm.

• spiritual integrity. Dad and his whole family had to flee Russia because of spiritual persecution. Dad was only 16 years old at the time. Though he told me few stories about that time, he showed me that his faith was real. We had family devotions every day and often the stories Dad read moved him emotionally. He was not ashamed to cry, even though I was sometimes ashamed that he did it. But as I grew older, I saw how deep his relationship with God was. I became to appreciate his ability to show his feelings when so many men bottled theirs in. He helped give me the freedom to express my own emotions and live a spiritual life that is meaningful and deep.

• expressing love. I was Daddy's 'little girl' and he told me he loved me often, even when I grew taller than him. Fathers usually have a harder time expressing their love for their sons than their daughters and I think that was true with me and my older brother. Maybe because I was much more demonstrative of my love, Dad found it easier to respond in kind. In my mid-20s, when I got really sick, he didn't know how to help me. One evening he sat on my bed and told me how he had loved me when I was born and how that love had grown. It was the best thing he could have done. When I moved to Calgary, I knew he missed me very much. Whenever I flew home I would spend as much time as I could just being with him, a companionship where words were seldom used. When his kidneys failed and he knew he was dying, he asked me all sorts of questions about my car, my boyfriend (soon to be husband) and my finances...like he was just making sure I would be okay. The last words he said to my Mom (and my brother and me) were, "I love you."  Because of him, I never miss an opportunity to say those words to someone else.

I wish my Dad were still alive, but I'm so thankful for all the things he taught me. What did you learn from your Father? What gifts did he give you?