Breast Cancer and The “M” Word

Seventeen years ago, after I was diagnosed with an aggressive but early-stage breast cancer, I convinced myself that I had two, maybe five years left to live. I’d been told by someone who didn’t know what they were talking about that most recurrences happened within two years, and I hung onto that misguided tidbit for 24 months … and then another 24 months, until one day it occurred to me that I might not die at all. At least not of cancer. At least not soon.

But that two-year “deadline” turned out to be a gift. I retired early and started doing what my heart desired, spending more time in nature and with friends, learning to write fiction, leading a creative writing group. Life was good. I volunteered as a mentor to other breast cancer survivors, taking notes at their appointments, deciphering pathology reports, offering moral support and, most important of all, just being an obviously healthy person who’d not too long before stood in their shoes.

Thirteen years after that first diagnosis, the cancer did return. Same breast, same cancer, same chemo, and this time, instead of lumpectomy and radiation, a mastectomy and three more reconstruction-related surgeries. Still, the second time felt much easier, perhaps because I was otherwise healthy and fit, and had made it through treatment before.

It was during COVID and there wasn’t much else to do, so I went to work on revising a novel I’d had stuffed in a drawer a few years earlier. “Why not go for publication?” I thought. I made the story better and, not too long after my hair grew back, I held that published book in my hands. I was a 71-year-old debut author, two-time cancer survivor and felt on top of the world.

The three main characters in my novel have metastatic cancers, and after meeting in a support group, they become friends. Though cancer is its backdrop, the story is a darkly humorous tale about how unlikely friendships can form at any stage of life, and lead to healing and resolution through committed, platonic love. While it is fiction, the premise was taken from my own cancer experience of learning to open up more authentically to people I come across, forming relationships with some unexpected companions. Cancer also taught me to find humor in dark situations, from imagining the clangs and thumps of an MRI machine to be a bad teenage garage band (next time you’re on that table, you’ll get what I mean) to trying out pantyhose as post-chemo headgear (the legs? Tie them in a big, head-topping bow). While cancer is serious, we cancer survivors don’t always need to be. Cancer has taught me to laugh at life, and myself, more often.

I’d felt a little guilty writing about metastatic cancer, not having directly experienced it myself, but I’d lost both parents, a best friend, former boyfriend and several colleagues to various cancers. I know too well what end-stage cancer looks like.

And then, last March, a routine scan revealed a metastatic lymph node in my chest. The “M” word sank in, lying in my stomach like a rock. This was different. The prognosis, while still only a guess, was harder to absorb.

A short course of radiation followed and, days later … a trip to Sicily, where my husband and I celebrated our 32nd wedding anniversary. Did I think more about cancer than the fabulous pasta, stunning scenery and hilarious wild-goose-chase we went on, searching for a road we’d somehow lost? No, I truly put cancer out of my mind. While I’ve never been a Pollyanna, I work hard not to dwell in predictions of doom. Right now, I reminded myself, I’m well, fit and happy.

Six months later, in August, the node was a little smaller — good, right? — but still lit up on the scan. “Likely it’s inflammation from the radiation,” my oncologist said. OK. I put it out of my mind, mostly, but now it is six months later, and the next PET scan is in less than a week.

The thing is, even if it’s clear, cancer in the lymph system has a way of popping up elsewhere. It could do so in another six months, or six months or a year after that. Odds are, it will.

“They’ll just switch my medication,” I tell worried friends and family. “There’s so much out there now. Amazing stuff coming online all the time.” And that is true. We can’t know for certain what course our cancers will take, or how our bodies will respond to treatments.

I have no idea, really, what to expect. Of all people, I know that not every minute of every cancer day is bad … I had some treasured moments while undergoing chemotherapy. Some hilarious moments, actually, while being scanned and radiated. I made intimate connections — with technicians, other patients, my loved ones — that wouldn’t have occurred if I’d been plowing through life without cancer. I slowed down, and that was a good thing. I let stuff go, a great thing. I became more flexible about making plans and having to cancel them without feeling guilty.

So, that’s what I need to remember: Not made-up scenarios, but that if I’m open, truly open, to whatever life has in store, it will be OK. Like everyone, I’ll die eventually, of something. But perhaps more than people who haven’t experienced cancer, I hope to truly appreciate my life before that time comes.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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