On Joining the Breast Cancer Club

If 2020 wasn’t bad enough (a worldwide pandemic, civil unrest, thousands of people in food lines), 2021 seems to be continuing this theme of upheaval. For me, the unexpected event has been an invitation to join “The Breast Cancer Club.” Although I’ve spent years mastering the art of saying “no” to unwanted events, this is an invitation you can’t decline. So — with no warning and no preceding illness, I have joined what turns out to be a relatively popular club. The American Cancer Society tells me that 1 in 8 women in the U.S. will experience breast cancer in their lives.

Some clubs I spent a lot of effort trying to join: my younger self worked hard to be in the scholastic honor society, the Girl Scouts (with all their cool badges for my bandolier), the ski team club. Other clubs I just kind of fell into — the alumni clubs for my various schools, my mother’s bridge club (only as a substitute if one of the real members cancelled at the last minute), the Medicare club. And then there are those clubs that I found myself in the middle of with no real intent or desire to join — the club of adults who’ve lost a parent, the club of people who couldn’t legally marry (see my article on the journey to legal marriage), the sleep apnea club (see my article on my CPAP journey), and now — truly a club no one ever wanted to join — a cancer club.

So, what’s it like? I’m quickly learning that the experience varies widely. Just as no two bodies are exactly alike, no two breast cancer journeys are exactly alike. Here are my observations on what the journey is like thus far.

First, here is my diagnosis: Stage 1 invasive lobular and ductal carcinoma, left side only, no BRCA gene identified, but spread to enough places that on Feb. 5th I will have a left breast mastectomy and the removal of some lymph nodes. My surgeon will meet with me a couple weeks later to let me know whether chemo or radiation is needed. I am hoping she says, “neither one!” I am also opting to have a plastic surgeon put in a “tissue expander” at the end of the mastectomy. That will allow him to eventually put in a silicone implant so that my left breast will match the same (very small) size of my right breast. This process will apparently take several months to be complete, the speed depending on whether I have to have chemo or radiation. My goal is symmetry in my Speedo, that’s it.

Second, although NO ONE ever wants to get that post mammogram & post biopsy call “you have breast cancer,” there are some surprisingly positive things that have happened thus far:

— I discovered there is a strong, immediate and overwhelming support group awaiting a woman who receives a breast cancer diagnosis. Even if you know no actual women who have had this cancer, you can sign up for free on the American Cancer Society’s website “Reach to Recovery” (www.reach.cancer.org), put in your symptoms and be matched with a volunteer who has traveled a similar path. I received an email from my volunteer within an hour of signing up. Impressive!

— The network of acquaintances and colleagues who have come forward upon learning of my diagnosis is breathtaking. From high school friends to college and law school friends, to cousins around the country, to work colleagues, I have received many positive affirmations and offers to help. I have a growing collection of “you can do this” gifts -from specialty gelato to bubble bath to a hand knitted beanie hat to breast cancer warrior women images to a copper bracelet inscribed with “she believed she could, so she did.” I have a new bond with some of my work colleagues — two who have recently been down the mastectomy & chemo path and one who is on it right now. Some of my funniest exchanges have been with this group. “Gallows humor” perhaps — but having the diagnosis seems to give us permission to laugh at outrageous happenings.

— My wife, who is an educator and a psychologist, but who is not a nurse, has stepped right up to the plate in terms of getting ready for this surgery. She has studied how to clean post-surgery drains (which I will apparently have for a couple weeks) way more than I have. She is voraciously reading every piece of information she can find. She is online ordering my special mastectomy recovery shirts that don’t require you to raise your arms to get into them and have special pockets for the drains. (TMI for the casual reader? Sorry, but who knew there was such a thing?!)

— I am reminded daily of how lucky I am to have such a big extended family. From my stepchildren & their spouses, to grandchildren, to my mother, brother, nephews & their spouses, to my friends who are like family, I am the recipient of many heartfelt well-wishes. I feel somewhat guilty taking it all in — especially because thus far I am not one bit sick. I suppose that is about to change with my upcoming surgery, but still — much gratitude for all the sincere concern and good wishes.

I can think of only a few times when the reality of “you have cancer” has really hit me. One, my very supportive and concerned 16-year-old grandson played in a lacrosse tournament a few weeks ago with pink breast cancer ribbons on his helmet. When I saw a photo of him in his tournament, I was knocked off my feet. I mean — how wonderful that he would do that, and wow- me, pink ribbons, do I really have breast cancer?

Two, sitting in the waiting room of Huntsman Cancer Institute whenever I have gone in for additional tests or to meet with my surgeons. As I sit there with people who are in wheelchairs or dragging IV stands or taking advantage of the free stocking caps handed out to people with bald heads, it hits me. “Damn — these people have CANCER, and I am here too?!” I meet people who have had to drive for hours to come in for their treatment, and I am reminded how fortunate I am to live 3 miles from such a premier cancer treatment center.

Three, recalling the times I have walked in local breast cancer walks in honor of dear friends who have had breast cancer. The images of those walks flood my memory, and the detached “them not me” attitude I had turns into “oh my, now it would be ME in the pink shirt.”

Finally, my journey so far has reminded me of the power of being vulnerable. It is often at the places where we are broken that we become most alive, where we become most aware of our relationships with, and dependence on, others. When we become vulnerable, we give others a chance to step up and demonstrate their own caring and humanity. Strengthening that human connection has been the unexpected gift of breast cancer. As I enter this next phase, the actual surgery and recovery and whatever protocols lie ahead, I remind myself that the greatest gift I can give or receive lies in the power of staying present in the journey and connecting with the humans I meet along the way.

— by Jane Marquardt
January 31, 2021