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? 

Ellen Reichman

Ode to Bras: A Poem

Ten Years Since Cancer

Cancer and Relationships

Healing After Cancer

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