Ellen was a teacher, drug/alcohol counselor and school counselor for 32 years. Always being fairly “unique,” she was diagnosed with a unique form of breast cancer — one tumor followed by two more malignant tumors – in 2007. Ellen and her husband, although native New Yorkers, have lived in Seattle for 41 years. They have two grown children, two grandchildren and two standard poodles.

Ellen Reichman

pebble became part of an unfriendly family of three

Articles

A poem reflecting on one survivor's feelings on bras.

Ode to Bras: A Poem

It’s been 10 years since my diagnosis. 

In some ways, it feels like yesterday. But it also feels like it was a lifetime ago. 

First, there was call number one after my ultrasound. I was told about my “infiltrating ductal carcinoma.” I was driving when I received the call. No office visit. No face-to-face. Driving. And then, I just drove home as if my world was the same. Nothing about my world was the same. 

Two weeks later, after an MRI, I received call number two. Thankfully, I was home. This time the news was that two additional “highly suspicious regions” were detected. Highly suspicious. Couldn’t be good. Yet, they were just suspicious, right? Not definite.

Next was the barrage of doctors’ appointments and treatment options. The cancer “journey” had begun. I’ve never been sure why we call it a journey. I suppose since a journey is defined as traveling from one place to another, it is a journey of sorts. Patients travel from the land of wellness to the land of sickness. I’d rather go on a trip.

It’s been said that if you pass the five- and then 10-year mark, you are less likely to have a recurrence. It may be less likely, but it can still happen, of course. 

Every day I am reminded of cancer. A double mastectomy is a constant reminder, but people tell me to not think about it. It’s over. Those people never had cancer.

People tell me cancer can happen to anyone and I’m no more likely to have it happen again as they are. Really?

It’s as if there are two camps — those of us who have had cancer, and those who haven’t. No matter how loving and empathetic people may be, if they have not gone through cancer treatment, it’s impossible to put yourself in our shoes and to wake up one day and know a foreign toxic body is out to get you. It happened once, it can happen again. That is simply the way it is.

Cancer no longer defines me. But, cancer will always be a part of me. 

I celebrate 10 years. I celebrate friends and loved ones who have had cancer as they reach personal milestones, and remain cancer free.

It's been said that reaching the ten-year mark means you are home free. But are you?

Ten Years Since Cancer

When a cancer diagnosis is given, it not only impacts the person receiving the news, but other family members as well.  My illness touched everyone I knew. This included friends, neighbors, co-workers, casual acquaintances.  People I had never imagined to be supportive come out of the woodwork to be there for me.  Sadly, I also discovered there were others, who could not or would not show up.  It was as if I had a plague of some sort and they feared they could catch it.  Or, they didn’t know what to say or do, so …they simply said or did nothing.  

The relationship that surprised me the most was the one I had with my mom.  Although 3,000 miles apart, she came into my world in a way I never thought she could.  To this day, 10 years later, we are closely connected.  My poem “The Visit” speaks to our journey. 

Hopefully, others who walk this walk will have their loved ones right by their side. 

decided to fly cross country to visit my mother

a seemingly “normal” occurrence, but not so much for her

i gently confronted her — asked if she had any idea how

the years of harsh treatment left me feeling less than;

how always being in her way left me feeling invisible

for the next few days, we shared this new place…

saying good-bye, we lingered longer as we hugged

When receiving a cancer diagnosis, more often than not, all relationships are impacted. 

Cancer and Relationships

My life was on an even keel. I was a high school counselor, my husband, a research scientist. Our children were grown. We were involved with family, friends, exercise, work and our standard poodles. One day, a curve ball was thrown my way. That curve ball was cancer. My life was no longer on an even keel.

My husband and I were thrown into the world of decisions — meetings with doctors, second opinions and treatment options. We had a plan in place—an aggressive plan for breast cancer. I opted for the full meal deal – double mastectomy, six months of chemotherapy and five years of hormone therapy.

Before cancer, taking my dogs on long daily walks was a great stress reducer. After my surgery and during chemo, my oncologist insisted I continue to walk. Thirty minutes a day. Thirty minutes was now equivalent to a triathlon. If I could, I would crawl home. Yet, one step at a time, one poodle at each side, I walked. And walked. And walked. Walking was part of my healing. Before cancer, I started a yoga class. It was a bit challenging but I liked it. During treatment, I continued to attend my yoga class. My hair was falling out and I wore a baseball cap. My reconstruction had not begun and this was awkward at best. The poses were too hard. I couldn’t do them. I pictured fleeing from the room. I. Stayed. On. The. Mat. No matter what. No fleeing for me. My husband was on his mat next to mine. Sometimes, he’d reach over and take my hand. At the end of class, we’d lie still in a “corpse” pose for Shavasana, known as the final relaxation pose. This took on a new meaning. Trying to soothe my racing thoughts, I tasted my own tears as they trickled down my face. Tears of fear. Tears of gratitude. Tears of being. Simply being. Yoga was part of my healing.

Before cancer, I often told myself that I had to slow down. I’m like a hyperactive hummingbird, flitting from one activity to the next. During treatment, I didn’t flit as much, but I was stressed out. My job depleted me. My health depleted me. My world depleted me. A friend gave me a meditation tape. She was a cancer survivor and said it had really helped calm her mind. I gave it a try. The tape was thirty minutes. I sat in my chair with my headphones on and listened to the gentle but crashing waves. Every now and then, a bell would chime. That’s it. I began to breathe. I inhaled serenity. I exhaled anxiety. Over and over. I envisioned those hostile toxic cancer cells gone from my body. Instead, I was encased in warmth and beauty. The thirty minutes went by quickly, and I was somewhat restored.

Meditation was part of my healing. Before cancer, I went to the gym before work. After treatment, I resumed my exercise habits. One day, I noticed a group of indoor cyclists. The music was blaring, the sweat was pouring, and the energy seemed positive. I approached the instructor. I asked if she thought a cancer survivor who never took a spin class was a fit for this type of exercise. I was also older than most of the cyclists. She was encouraging. I decided to give it a “spin.” I loved it. I visualized myself healthy, vibrant and strong. I kept moving without going anywhere. I am still spinning as fast as I can without going anywhere — except to a better place in my mind. Cycling was part of my healing. I’ve attempted to incorporate these tools in my life, and they continue to serve me well. They are part of my ongoing recovery.

It’s close to 10 years since my diagnosis. Did I heal? Like any trauma, I can be re-activated. I’ve learned to live with this. Cancer is a part of me. But it is not the biggest part of me. It does not define me. Perhaps that is what it means to be healed. 

How does one heal after a cancer diagnosis? 

Healing After Cancer

It’s interesting how others react to those of us with a cancer diagnosis. There really are not any guidebooks for people about what to say or do and what not to say or do. Most just follow their heart. Or not.

I have witnessed a wide range of reactions. There were those who were very uncomfortable to see what I was going through. Not being able to express their concern, they simply didn’t say or even do anything. Some were afraid they could “catch” it. Witnessing me - a healthy, vibrant woman who “got cancer” and, overnight, became, “a sick” human being, couldn’t it happen to them?

However, the most pronounced reaction to my treatment and certainly when I was “finished” with treatment was the statement I heard repeatedly — “You’ll be fine.” It was kind of like I was over a bad cold. Perhaps by saying I’ll be fine, you are really saying that you don’t have to think of me in any other way. It works… but who does it work for?  People have even argued with me, saying that since I have had treatment for my breast cancer, I am at no greater risk for a recurrence than they are. 

Maybe so. But, honestly, you can’t convince me of that.

Once those toxic cells invaded our bodies, we live with the fear it can happen again. And pray that it doesn’t. I have a friend who recently had surgery for kidney cancer. As soon as her surgery was over, she was told by well-meaning people she’ll be fine. 

The bottom line is that cancer is a bit of a crap shoot — we play with the odds, statistics, percentages. We try to be “fine,” but as the future is uncertain for all of us, it’d be nice if you tell us how healthy we look, how happy you are to see us and cheer us on. 

I’m sure it’s with good intent, but saying, “You’ll be fine” feels dismissive.           

Perhaps by saying I’ll be fine, you are really saying that you don’t have to think of me in any other way.

Being Told You'll Be Fine After Cancer

I’ve been there — Texts, emails and phone calls are just to tell you I’m thinking about you

Come take a walk with you or run an errand

I won’t ask you to call me if you need anything

Like I know someone who had a recurrence of the same type you have

I won’t tell you horror stories of anyone else’s journeys

Cancer — the toxic humanizer I’m with you in solidarity

I ran into someone I know only by sight in the locker room of the club I work out at. She was putting on a colorful scarf to cover her bald head. I approached her and commented on how lovely she looked. I also told her “I’ve Been There.” We began talking. She told me about her diagnosis of uterine cancer and her treatment. I listened. Then, for some reason, she began telling me about people who have been there for her, and those who haven’t. She teared up when she spoke about a good friend, a family friend. The husbands of the two couples have been friends for decades. They even spend Thanksgiving and Christmas together. But her friend has never acknowledged her cancer. Never said a word to her, or called her, or sent a card, or did anything. Kind of like it didn’t exist. Made her feel like she didn’t exist. She said when she feels up to it, she will tell her how she feels, if she can. I hugged her when we ended our conversation, but couldn’t get it out of my mind. When I went through my “journey,” it touched me deeply when people showed up. Conversely, the hurt I felt when a person I was close to couldn’t or would show up never really went away. None of us are comfortable with cancer. But if there’s ever a time to put aside any feelings about your own personal discomfort or thinking you might say or do the wrong thing, this is it the time. There is no right or wrong thing. Just. Show. Up. Please be there. 

When receiving a cancer diagnosis, it means so much to have others be there for you. 

I've Been There: A Poem About Cancer

It began the summer of 2007 when I felt the tiniest lump in my right breast. It felt more like a pebble than a lump. I thought it would magically disappear in the same way it magically appeared. But it didn’t. I decided to make an appointment with my gynecologist to get it checked out. It was reminiscent of a tiny lump I had in the year 2000. After it was biopsied, it turned out to be a benign mass. But this time, my gynecologist seemed concerned as she examined me. She ordered another mammogram. My last one didn’t show anything out of the ordinary except that my breasts were dense. An ultrasound was scheduled immediately after the mammogram, which enabled a closer view of dense breasts. I went to the appointment alone since my husband had a business trip scheduled. I was fine about it as this was merely a standard procedure.

During the ultrasound, the technician called in the radiologist. This surprised me. I thought of radiologists the same way I thought of the wizard in “The Wizard of OZ” — behind the curtain doing their thing by reading the report. They didn’t actually make appearances. This one did. He appeared without an introduction; all he did is stare at the monitor under his black rimmed glasses. No one talked. I’m not sure I was even breathing. I looked at him and asked him what it could be. He said he wasn’t sure but it could be cancer. Just like that. He didn’t look at me. It was as if he said could be cloudy with a chance of rain.

My breath was shallow, but I didn’t cry. I simply got dressed and drove home. Those words resonated in my brain, but I tried to block them out with loud music. Once home, I was greeted by my two standard poodles. They followed me up the stairs to the bedroom. Slowly, I changed out my clothes and into the cozy, flannel Victoria Secret pajamas my children got for me years ago. I could fit two of me in them. My poodles and I hopped into bed together. I pulled the covers over me and I cried. Hard. For the first and last time.

Unlike my former biopsy, this one revealed an infiltrating ductal carcinoma. Not only could it be cancer, it most definitely was. My husband and I tried to grasp the news. He hugged me and said, “We’ll get through this.” “I know.” I responded, although I wasn’t sure who I was reassuring.

I’m not the first person to have breast cancer. After a lumpectomy, an MRI was arranged. It should have happened the other way around, but this is how it played out. The MRI disclosed two other “highly suspicious regions.” Those regions turned out to be two more malignant tumors. Overwhelmed by the information of having three tumors, I started to drift away. A flurry of doctor’s appointments came next, before making a decision about the best treatment plan. I voted for the full meal deal consisting of a bilateral mastectomy, six months of chemotherapy, reconstruction and five years of hormone therapy. Can’t mess around …

I began to slip away even more. I suppose in psychological terms, it would be described as dissociating. I simply focused on what I needed to. I needed to schedule a surgery date and become educated about chemotherapy. I needed to decide if I would continue working full time as a high school counselor or take a leave of absence. The night before my mastectomy in October, friends gathered together to wish me well. It was so beautiful that I almost cried. Then my husband took me out for a lovely dinner. The next day, he and my daughter sat together as I was operated on. No tears were shed. At least, not by me.

The first time I saw myself without my bandages, I gasped. As I stared in the mirror, it was as if I was staring at someone other than me. I remained alone in the bathroom for a long time, but still, I didn’t cry. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel. My feelings were muted. It’s as if I lived in a world without color. I felt and welcomed the undying love of my husband who got me through each day. I felt the love of my children who were there for me. I felt the love my mother, who as able to “mother” me long distance in a way she never could before. I felt so touched by the countless number of friends, neighbors, co-workers and parents of students who showered me with gifts of food, flowers, notes and comfort. I felt sad about the one or two friends who simply couldn’t show up. I felt annoyed when people said things to me without thinking — like telling me about people they knew who died from breast cancer, or that they would never have their breasts removed. I felt grief when my hair slowly started to fall out.

I felt discouraged when I returned to work after my surgery. As a high school counselor, I had a very demanding job. However, my husband, oncologist and I believed working part time would be good for me. It would help me to define myself as not merely a “cancer patient.” The administration was to hire someone to pick up the other part of my job, but this never happened until the very end of the year. Even the teachers’ union became involved on my behalf. Essentially, I was working part time and being responsible for a full-time job while going through chemotherapy. If nothing else made me want to cry, this did. Or scream. If there is such a thing as life-threatening fatigue, I had it.

Every part of me cried out — my bones, my pores, my finger nails. Jane, my chemo nurse, was a gentle soul who could read me so well. She noticed how detached I was and suggested I see a therapist or go to a support group. Being a therapist myself, of course I believe in therapy and support groups. Only not this time. Not for me. I’m not going to be forced to talk &mdash; and cry. After work, I would drag myself home and go to my safe place &mdash; under the covers. Wave after wave of exhaustion, nausea and depression would overcome me. But I was stoic. I simply would not or could not cry. My husband said my eyes were vacant. That’s because no one was there.

Often times I would forget. I couldn’t recall information. It was as if all my mental files were deleted. I suppose people refer to it as “chemo brain.” It was simply darkness. Each day I walked for 30 miles. Oh, I mean 30 minutes, which my doctor ordered. It felt like 30 miles. Three times a week I did yoga. This was probably the best and worst thing I did for myself. I went through traumatic spinal fusion surgery as a child, which involved being in a body cast flat on my back for six months. I was always self-conscious about my curvature of the spine. When I went to yoga, I benefited from the stretching, balance, breathing and meditation. But, looking around the room and watching what seemed like every woman moving gracefully with their perfect backs, full head of hair and real breasts had me feeling sorry for myself. Yet, I did what I could, and I stayed on the mat. People would remark about my strength. My plastic smile clearly stated, “Do I have a choice?” Even after chemotherapy ended, the combination of the cumulative effects of chemo and the side effects of hormone therapy kept me feeling quite washed out. Thankfully, I was able to transfer to a real part-time counseling position at a middle school the following year, where the demands were less. Since I was still healing and going through reconstruction surgery, this was a blessing.

Life became one of tentative gratitude. Those who have been touched by cancer will understand what that means. I sometimes wonder why I didn’t cry. Perhaps I felt I’d never stop.

Postscript: It has been nine years since my diagnosis. I stand in solidarity for all who have fought the battle — in tribute and in memory. When I think of loved ones I have walked the walk with, or who I have lost to cancer, something comes over me. It is then when I begin to cry. 

A cancer diagnosis can evoke many emotions. It may, indeed, be too much to grasp. 