The bad news: I’ve been diagnosed with cancer again. The good news, I am going to be okay.
I’ve been open about the fact that I am a three-time cancer survivor. In a moment, I’ll explain why I’ve been open with my cancer history, but first, I want to explain why I waited over a month to say anything about my recent diagnosis.
One thing I’ve learned over the years is the importance of positive energy—and the harmful real-life impact of negative energy. Twelve years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, after which I had a lumpectomy in my right breast along with the removal of some lymph nodes, followed by radiation and five years of estrogen inhibitor medication. Since that time, I’ve been considered cancer-free.
I had my annual mammogram on May 1, where they detected something in my left breast. I returned for an ultrasound, and then had a biopsy, which showed that the something they saw was cancer. Fortunately, it was a very small something, rated Grade 1, which is the lowest risk.
I chose to tell only my immediate family and a couple of my closest friends. Why? Because I did not need the negative energy from those people out there who immediately assume that if a person gets a second diagnosis of breast cancer years after the first, it is some sort of death sentence. Because it’s not, and I didn’t want that negativity put out into the universe—even if it was unintentionally put out there.
Now that I have more information, I am ready to be open about my current situation, because secrets, even secrets we are entitled to keep to ourselves (because our medical history is inherently personal) can create unnecessary whispers and worries that ultimately foster negative energy.
If that sounds too woo-woo to you, then I’ll return to more tangible facts regarding my recent diagnoses.
After meeting with the surgeon and oncologist, they felt that considering the size of the lump and the results of the biopsy, I would simply need a lumpectomy, maybe radiation, and probably no chemo. And I’d have to go on the estrogen inhibitors again. But considering my history with cancer (this is my fourth cancer rodeo), they wanted to schedule an MRI of my breasts and do some genetic testing before surgery.
The MRI showed nothing new, and the cancer is limited to that small something the mammogram originally picked up, and nothing going on in the right breast. As for the genetic testing, it showed I had some sort of cancer mutation, but it was not the breast cancer gene, and it’s possible it’s something my body developed as opposed to inherited. While we are still looking into that, they tell me it really has nothing to do with my current situation, and it doesn’t appear to be an issue for someone my age.
My surgery is scheduled for next week, and it is basically an outpatient procedure. I will come home the same day. After the surgery, I’ll meet with the oncologist to finalize whatever treatment I’ll need.
So, while this is obviously not something I want to go through again, I have a lot to be grateful for, and frankly, many people I know are dealing with far worse things right now.
Now, back to that other question I mentioned—why say anything at all? Many people keep their health issues to themselves. And I totally get that and respect their privacy. But for me, it goes back to my first cancer diagnosis.
When I was in college, my mother was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. It was during the summer, and I was home at Havasu Palms on break. I knew something was going on, but my parents were all hush-hush about it, and while I knew she was having some surgery, they never mentioned the C-word. It was all very secretive.
My sister, who was married and living in Northern California, and had no idea Mom was having surgery, much less had cancer. When she called Havasu Palms to talk to my mom, my parents weren’t there, and Lynn was told Mom was having throat surgery in California.
Lynn was understandably upset. And so was I, because I wanted to talk to my sister about Mom’s upcoming surgery, but was told I couldn’t tell her, and my parents didn’t want to discuss it with me. I hated the secrecy, and I needed someone to talk to.
It would be a year before we learned about the cancer, when Lynn found a lump in her throat, and Mom realized she had to tell Lynn about the thyroid cancer so Lynn could disclose her family’s cancer history with her doctor. Fortunately, Lynn did not have thyroid cancer.
A few years later, at 23, I was diagnosed with a malignant tumor on my olfactory nerve. I had gone to our family doctor complaining that I couldn’t breathe out of one nostril, and he kept prescribing medication that didn’t work. I took it upon myself to see an ENT, who thought it was a polyp he could remove in his office. Me, being a chicken, opted to do it in the hospital because I wanted to be put out. It was a good thing because it was not a normal polyp and bled profusely. After the tumor was tested, it proved malignant, and I ended up having six weeks of radiation.
Because of how my parents handled Mom’s cancer, I thought I had to be all secretive about what I was going through—which proved not to be the best thing for me. I didn’t even tell my parents about the cancer diagnosis at first. They figured it out when I told them I was having radiation treatment.
That first bout of cancer taught be some valuable life lessons. The first thing we need to advocate for our own health. Had I not sought a second opinion, I probably would not be writing this. That cancer would have inevitably moved into my brain.
The second thing it taught me—always have some type of health insurance. Fortunately, at the time of my first cancer, Don had good health insurance through the company he worked for. In later years, when we were both self-employed or working for someone who didn’t pay for health insurance, we made sure we at least had major medical.
The third thing it taught me, while we don’t need to overshare our medical conditions, secrecy comes with its own unhealthy consequences.
And a word of advice to all of you—when a family member, friend, or even just an acquaintance shares with you the news of their cancer diagnoses, whatever you do, restrain from sharing with them any stories about people you know who died from cancer. And if you don’t believe people do that, you would be surprised. If you feel compelled to share any cancer stories with a person dealing with cancer, share only the success stories.
I also understand that sometimes the Universe has other plans for us, and just because someone dies from cancer does not mean they weren’t positive enough. Sometimes it means their journey has another path, one they will better understand when they move on from this life and continue their journey. There I go again, getting all woo-woo.
This fourth bout of cancer is also an affirmation: I married the right man. Women are six or seven times more likely to be abandoned by their husbands after a cancer diagnosis than men are. I read studies show something like 21% of women are abandoned by a partner after an illness diagnosis, compared to less than 3% of men.
When I was dealing with my first breast cancer and briefly considering a mastectomy, Don’s response: I’ll support whatever you decide. A stark contrast from actress Sharon Stone, whose husband’s reaction to her decision to undergo a preventive mastectomy because of tumors: I’m out of here.
For the ladies out there, remember to get your annual mammogram.
