The diagnosis was confirmed. I was given choices; mastectomy? double mastectomy? "No mastectomy", I said, "Just remove the lump and not the breast". I am given my choices of chemotherapy. I am immediately against Adriamycin, with it’s nearly 100% risk of hair loss. I choose another standard trio of breast cancer drugs; Cytoxin, Metholtrexate, and Flurourocil. Loosing my hair would feel like a badge, marking me as a CANCER PAIENT!

Dr. Rose gave me a referral to see Dr. Dawn, the oncologist. Dr. Dawn wanted me to have a subclavian catheter placed in my superior vena cava. This meant that I would not have to be stuck with a needle every time I received the chemotherapy. I refused, "Unless my veins give out". Dr. Dawn, thoughtfully responded, "Okay"...but you will have to have one if we can’t give you the nine months series of treatments any other way." I explained to him that I had cared for cancer patients who were terminally ill and they had permanently placed catheters. That would surely make me feel like a dying patient: more like a patient than I already was feeling.

Now, there was a plan. When to begin? In about four weeks...as soon as my surgical sight had healed.

I was in enough denial to be able to talk rationally with my sister and a few friends about the impending treatment. Dr. Dawn told me that with the surgery I had statistically a 50/50 chance of recurrence with in five years. Chemotherapy would increase my odds to 75% of recurrence within five years. Adding radiation to the formula increased my statistical changes of being cancer free for five years up to 90%.Statistical odds cannot be generalized to a single individual. My chances could only be zero or 100%.

Richard and I discussed the implications of chemotherapy. Richard seemed strong in his resolve to comfort me. I was relieved that he didn’t have a need to treat me as if I was ill. We altered our schedules and life style very little to all outward appearances.

I could write a great deal about my efforts to maintain our "normalcy". There were times that my determinations over came good sense. I worked consistently as a Thursday evening neighborhood work crew volunteer. I coordinated and carried out a neighborhood flea market event. I worked part time, various shifts, as a nurse. I was on the boards of several regional committees. All the time, Richard was keeping a watchful eye on me. When I pushed myself too much, he would suggest that I rest. Sometimes it was very hot working outside in the summer time, and Rich would alter our jobs or shorten the work times. He was often the work crew leader. At the time, I just went along. Did I say thank you enough?

My sister, Christine, lives in Florida. She and I spoke on the telephone at length, about what I anticipated in the way of treatments. Our Aunt Gladys, who had raised Christine, was grievously ill with leukemia. This was such a difficult period for Chris. She is easily moved to tears-and she is my "little, distant, sister". Distance that she needs me to respect. She offered her heart and shoulder, but I had a hard time leaning on her. How do you share your fears and grief with the people that you love? One good thing about a cancer diagnosis is that you don’t have to explain what cancer is-everyone knows.

I maintained the role that helped me survive the most intact. I was the reassuring person to others. This did have the effect of having some people open up to me with their stories. I met and remained in touch with several neighbors who live with similar health challenges. Hearing how others coped gave me ideas on how to cope myself. Often, these stories distracted me from my own helpless feelings and frustrations. A particular support, was discovering that a few close friends who I did volunteer work with had chronic illnesses that could have incapacitated them. Who were these people? I still bask in the glow of their unselfishness. Their giving was not directly to me. My pleasure was in the experience of sharing works with these people. I found some of them in every group that I was involved with. They exuded positive energy. I soaked it up. They inspired me and I am sure that at times, I inspired them.

On a more familial note, my sister Nancy came from Houston, and scheduled her visit to coincide with my first scheduled chemotherapy treatment. Nancy and I had lived near each other for almost fifteen years, in a small town outside of Houston, Texas. We had shared raising our children and are very close. Nancy was engrossed in a new career as a human resources director. I was surprised that she took time to come and see me. I knew how much her career meant to her, so her time with me was all the more meaningful. I was so glad to have her with me.

The survival plan was in place. Part of the plan was to be implemented by the medical world. Part was super imposed by the well-wishing and moral support of my loved ones and friends. The most tremendous life line was my own ability to share my story with others. Every time I addressed my uncertainties, and fears, and dreads, they became less scary. It was like looking under the bed for the Bogey-Man. Once you had the nerve to look, the worst dread was gone. It would come back over and over, but I was confident that facing the fear each time was a brave thing to do, and that helped my confidence. My father had taught me long ago to meet challenges by "looking past it". This idea rescued me repeatedly, supported positive attitudes, and kept reminding me that we were doing what we knew to fight this evil disease.

My Father’s lessons in helping me jump over ditches or small streams when I was a child helped me learn to jump over emotional obstacles as well. "Don’t look in the middle, look past it to the other side". Long ago I generalized that idea to get through exams and to combat fear when I faced the unknown. It’s the advice I have passed on to the children I’ve raised, many patients I’ve come in contact with, and friends facing difficult times.

While working with cancer patients, as a nurse, I was taught visual imagery as a method to assist patients who were receiving chemotherapy or dealing with chronic pain. That idea is to focus on a positive thought; often a pleasant experience or place. This fits in nicely with my father’s lesson of "looking past" the difficult times. As I write this, I wonder if my Father is aware of how important his lesson has been to me.

Richard and I continued to plan for our extended cruise to the Bahamas. I would feel overwhelmed with the thought that I would not be alive to go. I suppose I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I would allow myself some crying and that released some of the tension. Rich would hug me, when he knew. Usually, he was aware of my sadness.

Much of my sadness was associated with the quilt and regret that I was creating trouble and anxiety for my darling husband and family. I am not one who wants my family to keep important events or significant illnesses a secret from me, so I tried to be bold and share the misery. I was conscious that even as I rushed to comfort the recipient of my news, that comforted my self as well. No system is perfect. We each have our own way of getting our personal needs met. Talking is usually the key to self expression for me. Talking out feelings can keep one from expressing feelings through "acting out" in less positive ways.