In March of 2019 I was diagnosed with Ductal Carcinoma In Situ. DCIS, also known as Stage 0 breast cancer, is not life-threatening and not all cases will progress to invasive cancer. But there is no reliable way to determine which ones will. Most DCIS is surgically removed with a lumpectomy or mastectomy. The cancers that progress to invasive are treated with chemotherapy and/or radiation.
Today it’s been three years since I was deemed free and clear from DCIS. After one lumpectomy, one mastectomy then another mastectomy, my surgical journey was over. I remember getting the email with the pathology report. It was 2:58pm in the afternoon and my parents, who were visiting to help with the kids while I recovered, had just left to pick up my kids from school. My husband was at work because I was recovering fine (after all I had been through it before), and it was the first time I was alone in the house. My email binged and it said I had a MyChart test result to review. My heart skipped a beat, as it was a bit early for pathology to come back, especially with all the tests being run in labs during the holiday/end of year season.
I logged into MyChart – knowing the password after checking it so many times over the past 9 months. There it was -the pathology report for a mastectomy. “No in situ or invasive carcinoma identified.”
That’s all it said. Well, that’s not all it said. There were a bunch of words I can’t quite remember, but that’s all that mattered. No cancer. No cancer.
“Are you sure?” I asked no one. I sat at the edge of my bed and read all the words. “No in situ or invasive carcinoma identified” “Margins negative.”
No cancer. No more cancer. Its all gone.
I am done.
It may have been the end of my cancer journey, but it was the beginning of my recovery journey. And three years out, I am understanding that the recovery journey may last a lifetime. In the three years I have been recovering mentally and emotionally, I have come to realize that I suffer from PTSD when it comes to waiting for test results of any kind. I have feelings of survivor’s guilt when I hear of a friend or relative that has been diagnosed or passes away from cancer. I remind myself that everyone’s journey is different but the feelings of guilt creep in. At times they are overwhelming. Why did I get stage 0 when someone else got stage 3, went through chemotherapy and is now facing a recurrence of cancer? There has to be a reason. Doesn’t there?
This year, I am not celebrating with champagne. I am not celebrating my writing all the things I am grateful for. This year, I am doing what makes me comfortable. I am putting on one of my favorite movies – Holiday Inn – and I am sipping my homemade mocha with whipped cream! I am munching on peanut M&Ms and waiting for the sun to come out from behind the clouds. Because not every celebration needs to be big and loud and boisterous. Because this year, more than any other year so far, I know there are people in my life who are waiting for test results, who are on their last breaths from cancer after fighting AND living for longer than expected. Because cancer still makes me feel so helpless. It's hard watching people go through it. It's hard going through it. It's hard losing. And it's still hard winning. Because the ones who win their battle with cancer as I have, still have to watch others put on their strong, stubborn facades and brave their way through the diagnosis, surgery, chemo and radiation and all the side effects of that. And the families who are standing next to them, crying in quiet moments, lifting their partners and fathers and mothers up.
A friend recently said to me that our natural instinct is to want to help others when we hear of a cancer diagnosis. When I went through mine, I held a select few close to my heart and, to everyone else, I kept it quiet. And it was the people who I kept close to myself who showed up in the little ways. Not big gestures, not gifts, not even phone calls. It was a quick squeeze of the shoulder. It was KNOWING that if I texted at 1am they would text back. Because anything else- a bigger gesture – is overwhelming to receive.
So, this year is not about big celebrations or gestures. It's about simple and small. It’s about moving forward, knowing that cancer is still with us all in some way or another, and that while that is a sad feeling, I know I can be the person who gives in small ways, and will answer text messages at 1am. Everyone knows someone who is going through this on some level. All we can be is kind.
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