A Sweet Little Secret

My Encounter With Breast Cancer

Those of us who regularly follow the news can easily feel discouraged about the human condition. Hearing mostly about shootings, global warming, economic collapse, starvation, war, etc., it might seem as if the world has gone awry and we have lost our humanity.

I might have believed that, too, before I happened upon one of life’s sweet little secrets. It was a diagnosis of breast cancer last year that showed me the kind and caring side of human nature.

From the first suspicious mammogram, I was moved by the kindness of the professionals who worked with me. The women at the imaging center were extraordinarily understanding of the fear and horror I was feeling.

Then followed a visit to a surgeon; then a biopsy. At 3:30 in the afternoon of June 15, I received the news that the pathology report was positive. I met with the surgeon at 6:00 that evening. In her soft, compassionate voice, she explained my options and my prognosis. She answered every one of my questions without rushing me. At 7:30 I left her office feeling upbeat. Yes, I had breast cancer, but I had the “best of the best” — a low-grade and non-invasive form.

From that day forward, I entered a new realm of understanding. Not only was I enveloped by the love and support of friends, family and co-workers, but I found hope and love and sustenance in many unexpected places.

My upbeat feelings were short-lived and were followed by a phase of disbelief and despair. I could not believe I had cancer — I was in good health and had no family history.

Looking for solace, I turned to a program called Reach to Recovery offered by the American Cancer Society. I was matched up with a survivor in my area who served as a source of comfort, information and hope, and with whom I still get together on a regular basis.

My lumpectomy was performed in early August. Although the preparation and waiting were difficult, the surgery itself only took 45 minutes. I was home, talking on the phone and quite comfortable by 4 p.m.

My radiation treatments began after Labor Day. My radiologist, a man about 20 years my junior, impressed me from the first appointment, which was before my surgery. He spent an entire hour with me. He answered every one of my questions thoughtfully and carefully. At one point his nurse knocked on the door and asked if he wanted to take a call from another doctor. Mid-sentence, he left the room. Ten minutes later, he came back into the room and finished the sentence he had started before the call.

I had radiation treatments five days a week for 6 weeks. When I saw the radiologist every Wednesday, he always asked if I had questions and answered them as if he had the whole day to do so. His kindness, compassion and reassurance were one of the most comforting and healing parts of the whole process. Toward the end of my treatment he offered me a very hopeful prognosis, telling me that my chances of recurrence were quite low.

Treatment ended and was followed by a tremendous high. It was the best feeling just to have endured those six months of fear and uncertainty and be back to a regular life.

In August I participated in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure for the first time. I went with a group of co-workers, two of them also survivors. Twenty thousand people went out on a stifling August day to run or walk the 5K course.

A sea of pink headed east from Union Station, undulating in the blazing sun. The crowd was quiet and matter-of-fact, but every time you saw names on the back of a T-shirt or someone’s hat, you remembered the gravity of the occasion.

Every so often we would come upon a rock band or a jazz band; equally dedicated musicians playing their hearts out in the steaming sun.

I learned that day that people cared — 20,000 people cared about my disease and would expend their precious time, money and energy to raise money to find a cure.

In the pink bag provided for survivors at the race, I found a certificate for a free facial and massage. When I went in for the massage, the woman offering it immediately started talking about breast cancer. She has walked in the Race for the past seven years since losing her sister to the disease. She and her partner offered the massages to survivors to bring them some pleasure and comfort. People cared.

My sister and I, who live half a country apart, had been estranged for several years. But soon after my diagnosis, I received an e-mail from her wishing me well. That began a gradual process of reconnecting. At her wedding this spring, she was struck by the fact that six cancer survivors were in attendance. Her hair was quite long at her wedding, and without saying anything, she continued to grow it for several months until she had the 10 inches required to donate to Locks of Love. She donated her hair in our honor. People cared; even my sister.

So, in the year-and-a-half since my diagnosis, I have not encountered shooters and warriors and criminals. I have encountered people who care and who have devoted their time and energy to giving support or treatment or services to cancer patients, to obtain funding for research, and hopefully to eradicate this dread disease.

Sometimes it’s the most difficult circumstances in our lives that show us the sweeter side of human nature.

Final note: Seventeen years after my diagnosis and treatment, I remain cancer-free.