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IS KNOWING THE FUTURE A BENEFIT OR A CURSE?

10/21/2018

“Infuse your life with action. Don't wait for it to happen. Make it happen. Make your own future. Make your own hope. Make your own love. And whatever your beliefs, honor your creator, not by passively waiting for grace to come down from upon high, but by doing what you can to make grace happen yourself, right now, right here on Earth.” -- Bradley Whitford

i have often wished a piece of my future would be revealed to me so I would know my purpose and what would become of my life. I wanted someone or something to give me a sign that would outline the steps I should take to fulfill my destiny. I questioned whether I was doing the right things to justify my existence, if I should be doing more, or if doing less was good enough. Should I be angry about unfortunate events and blame others for my misfortune or do what I can to change the circumstances? These questions arise as a result of our privileges and our challenges.

For a long time I was bitter that I was diagnosed with cancer that took nearly two years to eradicate. And, when my treatment was over, that I had to live with significant challenges cancer survivors face. i saw myself as a diluted, less impressive version of my pre-cancer self and thought these and many other post-treatment situations were unfair. However, I just celebrated my 50th birthday and today is my 16th anniversary of being cancer-free -- two milestones which I didn’t think I’d see. and, despite my hurdles, I consider myself lucky.

My resolve, positive attitude, competitive nature, and humor help get me through tough times. But equally (if not more) important is the overwhelming amount of love and help I received, and continue to receive, from countless people, including doctors, companies, family, friends, and complete strangers who choose to step outside their own situations to lessen the burden of another. This recurring phenomenon bolsters my faith that positive energy truly fuels our existence.

With the benefit of hindsight I wouldn’t change one thing about my life. If someone told me 30 years ago the crosses I was destined to bear, I probably would have lived too fearfully, too cautiously. A neat and definitive map would only give me permission to mask my fears, prevent me from learning and experiencing all that life has to offer, and enable me to function in a myopic state with a big heart, but nowhere near as big as it is today.

Nobody knows for sure why we are all here. nevertheless, i believe we have a responsibility to behave lovingly and justly because, despite our individual plights, many are living with more difficult situations that are not always obvious. living nobly enhances our finite time on the planet and strengthens the positive energy we contribute to the universe. Life is neither neat and clean nor easy. It’s messy and confusing with no guarantees about the future. Challenges always arise but during these times I make every effort to stay true to my principles. By doing so, I trust my actions and behavior will determine the summary of my life and it will be good.

My husband says, “Life is a series of habits and experiences so make your habits intentional and your experiences amazing.” With these words in mind, everyday I try to live the gifts I have been given and help more people than have helped me. In short, who I believe I am will dictate what I will become.

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How Double Vision Improved my Perspective

8/27/2018

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In 1995, I was 26, living in Manhattan and working for an international consulting firm as a meeting and event planner. My job allowed me to travel frequently throughout the US and Europe, something I always wanted to do. It was an exciting time because while I was visiting new places and expanding my horizons, the internet, email and cell phones were just introduced, revolutionizing the capabilities of businesses and personal connections around the globe. However, despite these monumental technological advances, nobody had yet conceived of the much simpler invention of putting wheels on suitcases, which probably improved the lives of just as many people. So, although jet-setting often was thrilling, it was more strenuous than it is today. And after hauling my luggage around Germany for a week I was ready to go home.

After a long cab ride in traffic from JFK airport up the FDR to 34th Street, I arrived at my building AND TOOK THE ELEVATOR UP SEVEN FLIGHTS TO my apartment. UPON OPENING THE FRONT DOOR, MY EYES FIXATED ON My convertible sofa , WHICH never looked more inviting. Feeling like I was twice my weight, even without my baggage, I sat down, settled my weary body into my favorite corner, and turned on the 11 o'clock news.

While watching the anchors recount the day's typical New York City atrocities that now unfazed me, I STARTED TO DECOMPRESS. but, AT THE SAME TIME, slowly began seeing two of everything, as if I were crossing my eyes. I could clearly hear the reporters' voices as they bantered back and forth, but saw two of their faces, bodies, set fixtures and backdrops. I tried closing my eyes for a while, rubbing them, using eye drops, changing my contact lenses, and wearing my glasses but none of these remedies worked. Also studying for my MBA at NYU at the time and working out religiously, exhaustion was hardly A foreign CONCEPT to me. I assumed I was just overtired and, after a good night's sleep, my vision would return to normal in the morning. Unfortunately, when my alarm clock rang at 6:00 am and I rolled over to silence it, I saw two of them and everything else around me. I began to worry I had a more serious problem than fatigue so I called my eye doctor who agreed to see me that day.

Placing my hand over one eye to prevent me from seeing double, I struggled down TO AND ACROSS THE GROUND FLOOR TO TAKE the subway to my appointment. Luckily, the stations were only a block from my apartment and his office, which helped offset the challenge of functioning with impaired sight. After I arrived and waited for the receptionist to announce that the doctor would see me, I took a seat in his examining chair. When he entered, we exchanged pleasantries and I explained my problem. He then proceeded to dilate my pupils and shine brightly colored lights into them, which worsenED my vision, NOT TO MENTION my crushing headache. After about 45 minutes of CONDUCTING exams with the lights on and in total darkness, he said, "There is nothing physically wrong with your eye. I think you need to have an MRI and see a neurologist." Not familiar with either of those things, he directed me to his assistant who gave me further instructions on how to proceed. I then went home to call the diagnostic center and schedule my first MRI exam.

Two days later, again placing my hand over one eye, I took the subway to the medical center. Upon arriving, I gave the receptionist my personal information and insurance card and took a seat in the waiting room. The assistant led me to an area where I was to relinquish my clothes, personal belongings, and anything metal on my person, store them in a locker, and don the ever-glamorous hospital gown. I then waited with the other patients until it was time for my scan.

Sitting in a diagnostic center with a group of people looking powerless in hospital gowns is deflating and gave me my first exposure to patient dehumanization. I am dumbfounded why nobody has created a better garment to wear while being examined. Is it that hard? Hospital gowns fit no one nor keep you properly covered. Plus, I am convinced they are coated with some invisible chemical that surreptitiously extracts all your personality, skills, confidence, and strength. Like Kryptonite does to Superman. I determined they must be designed by doctors as a way to make patients think they are superior to them. I had no idea what to expect but, based on the current situation, I was not enthused. Then the assistant led me to the room that housed the all-powerful God of diagnostic machines.

For those unfamiliar with the MRI, let me enlighten you. It is a large tube about seven feet long with a table in the middle that wheels the patient's body inside it through a narrow, two foot-wide opening. The machine then emits a strong magnetic field and radio waves to generate images of your inner organs, tissues, and structures. IT is intimidating not only because of its size but because its flashing lights make it look like something out of a science fiction movie that aliens would use to alter the minds and bodies of people they abducted.

After you lie flat on the table, the technician secures you with RESTRICTIVE barriers and injects you intravenously with a contrast liquid that improves the visibility of the area being examined. This was disconcerting because I already assumED thE machine WAS going to brainwash me in some way and the injection was to help facilitate the process. Then the table wheels you backwards into the tube where you must remain motionless for the 45 - 60 minute scan so the images are produced accurately. MRIs of the brain, which is what I needed, are even more uncomfortable because the patient's head must be completely immobilized by a brace that resembles an oversized football helmet.  Although the scan itself doesn't hurt, while you are in the machine, there is, at most, six inches of space between your face and the top of the tube and you can only look straight ahead at it. Also, the scanner produces loud buzzing and knocking noises, which are distressing to your ears. I hope I've conveyed the procedure accurately enough to evoke the sense of the most uncomfortable and claustrophobic experience on the planet. Regardless, I managed to relax.

When the scan was complete, the technician wheeled me out of the tube and helped me off the table. Tears started streaming down my face. The radiologist came out of the control room and asked why I was crying. I told him I had been seeing double and was worried I had a brain tumor or something worse. After looking at the images and seeing how upset I was, he said he was not supposed to discuss what the scan revealed but assured me there was no mass in my brain to be concerned about and the neurologist would explain everything. Relieved I didn't have a brain tumor but still concerned that I couldn't see properly, I changed back into my clothes, slammed the Kryptonite-coated hospital gown into the hamper, and left.

With mascara bleeding down my cheeks FROM MY TEARS, I carried my MRI films in one hand, covered an eye with the other, and took the subway to the neurologist's office to share my results with him. After ascending to the street and walking a few blocks, I arrived at a stately, old New York building that had a large crimson awning adorned with gold numbers, confirming I had reached the correct destination. I pushed through the heavy glass and wrought iron doors and entered the lobby which had a shiny, black and white-checked marble floor. I then took the elevator to the 10th floor and found the doctor's suite. His office was decorated conservatively with dark green and pink floral fabric as well as generic wall art that conveyed no originality whatsoever. I gave the secretary my information and waited in the lobby.

The nurse called me in to the examining room and asked me to put on a hospital gown. I thought, is that really necessary?  When the doctor entered, he introduced himself. He was friendly but uninspiring, like his office decor. I explained my symptoms and gave him my films which he authoritatively tossed up on the light board, giving the impression he does this routinely. After viewing them through his thick glasses, he asked me to perform various physical tasks so he could determine my visual, mobile, and sensory acuity. For example, he asked me to walk back and forth, stand on one leg, and follow his finger with my eyes as he moved it up and down, side to side, and towards my nose, which I'm sure caused me to cross my eyes but I was already seeing double, so I saw no difference. He whacked my knees and elbows to test my reflexes, asked me to squeeze his fingers as hard as I could with each hand, then proceeded to stick me repeatedly with a pin all over my body and asked if I could feel it, which I could. Ow! This made me dislike him even more than I already did. He then looked at me and said I had Multiple Sclerosis.

Having never been diagnosed with anything before, especially a disease, I was shocked by this news AND immediately thought, multiple what? What? Me? Oh no, no, no. You have the wrong person. I am not destined for a wheelchair. Not me. I am SupergirL.  I didn’t understand how he could make thE diagnosis so quickly but, apparently, my scans and symptoms were tell-tale signs of the disease. Namely, nerve damage in my brain compounded by compromised body function. I asked, “Are you sure? Could it be something else?” He recounted a few other possibilities, including lupus, but said they were unlikely. I WAS CRESTFALLEN. AND FELT LIKE THE LITTLE GIRL WHO LOSES GRIP OF HER BALLOON, CAUSING HER HEART TO SINK PROGRESSIVELY DEEPER WITH EVERY INCH SHE SEES IT ESCAPE INTO THE SKY.

He explained that Multiple Sclerosis is a disease affecting the brain and spinal cord where a person's immune system mistakenly attacks their nerves' protective coating, known as myelin, which causes them to delay, misinterpret, or block the brain's signals that dictate how the body should perform. The damage can impede or completely debilitate any number of functions including vision, muscle strength, walking, coordination, balance, bladder control, thinking, and memory. It can also cause sufferers to experience sensations of numbness, prickling, or “pins and needles” in their appendages and extremities. He said I was experiencing an “exacerbation” or “flare up” which would probably resolve itself within a few months but there is no guarantee as to how long it will take or if the body will completely recover from the trauma. He gave me some literature, recommended I join the MS Society, and told me to follow up with him in a few weeks.

With my life dreams shattered and, again, one hand covering an eye, my mind was suffering the psychological equivalent of having been in the ring with Mike Tyson. I ventured back to the subway to go home, digest this news, and plan for my unfortunate future where I saw myself as an unemployed, dependent cripple that relied on the energy of others, instead of creating ENERGY OF her own. I thought I would become someone THAT would cause people to think, what a shame, she was so talented.

Based on the recent course of events, I was not surprised to find the train completely packed with commuters and every seat taken. So, for the next 20 minutes, I had to stand, grasp the hand rail, and attempt to maintain my balance while the train jostled back and forth and its lights flickered on and off.  During the ride, a group of young men were standing around the adjacent hand rail looking like they were seriously contemplating sexually violating my body. They were also speaking loudly enough for me to hear the lewd things they were saying. I turned to face the other direction and thought to myself, how on earth can you be looking at and thinking of me that way? You have no idea what I am going through. My life is ruined and you’re thinking about molesting me. On the train. I was disgusted. And, in my vulnerable state, began to feel uncomfortable and a little afraid. i mIght as well have been wearing a hospital gown .

When we arrived at my stop, I tried to get off as quickly as possible but a large, heavy-set woman in front of me was moving at a snail's pace and blocking my exit. I thought, come on, come on, come on. Pick up the pace! I'm seeing double, have just been diagnosed with a disease, and need to get home! Suddenly, I realized I was doing the same thing to her as thOSE men were doing to me-- judging by external factors with no knowledge of her situation. Much like I did to the doctor. I had no idea what this woman was experiencing and it dawned on me that her situation might be more traumatic than mine. Maybe she was terminally ill and was just told she had a month to live. Maybe she was a single mother who just lost the job that supported her entire family. maybe she got evicted from her apartment, lost all her belongings, and was now homeless. OR MAYBE HER SON OR DAUGHTER WAS JUST KILLED IN A CAR CRASH.  I hated myself for assuming my circumstance was more important than hers and I felt badly.

This first real lesson in empathy forever changed me. I realized that everyone is dealing with some degree of suffering and that making snap-judgements and assuming my needs are greater than THE NEEDS OF others is not only shallow but counter-productive. It encouraged me to be more patient and understanding. I concluded that offering to help people, even strangers, has the potential to create more good than competing with them. And few things improve your self esteem more than assisting someone less fortunate than you.

I am thankful I was able to grasp these concepts during one of my most trying times and for the perspective and, ironically, the clarity seeing double afforded me. It caused my heart and mind to expand beyond what I thought was possible. And made me appreciate that we're all in this journey together and can accomplish more as team than as individuals. We are not as alone with our struggles as we may think.

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THE ETERNAL QUEST FOR SELF-VALIDATION

7/20/2018

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"When I discover who I am, I'll be free."
-- Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

I know I am not alone in questioning the reason for my existence and whether I am using my gifts adequately to positively impact the world. I wonder if just living, loving, and doing no harm is enough of a contribution. Or are we meant, during our finite period on earth, to help as many others as possible at the expense of individual pursuits?

In my last blog I discussed the comfort I find in the laws of math and science as they provide absolute answers to complex problems. But recently, I realized another phenomenon that also gives me solace-- one that is essentially the polar opposite of the certainty math provides: The common feeling that questions why are we here, why are we forced to endure certain challenges, and are the challenges fair and even surmountable.

Last month, Poetry Magazine featured a brief synopsis of the life of Khalil Gibran (1883-1931), the renowned Lebanese author regarded as the key figure in the Romantic Movement that transformed Arabic literature in the first half of the twentieth century. His simple and direct literary style was a drastic departure from the rich but rigid style of pre-Islamic poetry and spoke to the experiences and loneliness of Middle Eastern immigrants in the New World. His themes of alienation, disruption, love, betrayal, and lost beauty and security in a modernizing world impressed his readers who considered him a revelation and an inspiration. His reputation as a central figure of Arabic literary modernism is undisputed. The concepts he wrote about were so universally understood, his work was translated into over twenty languages causing his fame and influence to spread far beyond the Middle East.

I have been familiar with Gibran for decades and have always revered his poetry. However, I was unaware he was also a visual artist and considered himself mainly a painter. I also learned that an out-of-print book of twenty of his sketches existed and bought it for my father, also a visual artist. When visiting with my family in Connecticut, I saw the book resting on a coffee table and picked it up to examine the drawings of one of my favorite writers.

Generally in art, themes are implied rather than explicitly stated and are the fundamental ideas explored in a work. They are usually about life, society, and how human nature is affected by external circumstances. I was not only surprised but reassured to see that many of his drawings conveyed the same concepts and imagery I employed in the collages I created while battling cancer-- themes that surmised complex questions through simple, yet powerful, images, like crucifixes, altered body shapes and people carrying heavy weight upon their shoulders. Seeing these similarities validated that all individuals experience similar emotions in times of crisis-- feelings that question the existence of God, why a seemingly unjust sentence has been handed to them, why they are forced to acknowledge mortality in the prime of their life, and why they must suffer physical and psychological trauma for so long. In further examining this subject, I learned the most common themes in visual art and literature include: finding common ground, religion, isolation, the body, conflict and adversity, identity, death, survival, betrayal, and loss of innocence. Realizing these common threads have been the subjects of creative expression since the beginning of time made me feel less alone, more accepting of the unknown, and more comfortable being uncomfortable.

The impulse to create art is universal. It has been a way to communicate beliefs and ideas throughout all stages of civilization in every region of the world. As cultural documents, works of art provide important insights into past and existing cultures that help us understand how others lived, what they valued, and what they experienced.

Humans have forever been trying to find reason for their existence and the circumstances that have fallen upon them but an answer has yet to be found. Perhaps this is why we constantly look for ways to validate and define ourselves by associating with everything from nationalities, religions, and professions to the brands and types of clothing we wear, the sports teams we support, and the vanity license plates we design. In other words, we try to find unity among many.

I have always believed all human experiences at their most basic level are universal despite unique individual circumstances. For example, an indigent woman who has lost a child feels the same sadness, loss and failure a wealthy woman does. Therefore, take comfort in the fact that we are all more alike than different and learning from the unknown provides far more enlightenment than fearing it. After all, John Steinbeck said, "In every bit of honest writing in the world, there is a base theme."

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FINDING THE VALUE OF "X" WHEN CALCULATION CAN'T

6/3/2018

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“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”

― Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

If you're like me, you appreciate concrete answers to problems. Unable to find a solution is frustrating to the point of mania. This is especially true if you revere the laws of math and science as I do, especially when they apply to life's experiences. I find solace in the fact that answers to complex questions can be derived through calculation and proven theories. I have witnessed them first-hand in my most challenging circumstances and use them to make sense of multi-faced situations.

I excelled at solving equations when I was young and spent hours in my family's basement with my chemistry kit heating substances in Bunsen burners and dissolving them with solutions in beakers. At the same time, I would be building a radio or morse code transmitter with my electronics kit and tending to my ant farm, which I procured by mailing in hundreds of box tops from my favorite cereal, Apple Jacks. I even began college at the University of Connecticut as a chemistry major with dreams of combining science and creativity as a top chemist for a major cosmetics company.

This educational path didn't last beyond my sophomore year because all the University's math and science Teaching Assistants were Korean and spoke only rudimentary English. As the math got more difficult, they were unable to explain how to solve equations so they just solved them for you. This helped me score well on assignments but left me clueless on exams, causing me to leave the program. Nevertheless, I carried my affinity for certainty into adulthood as I planned my future. I believed by following proven strategies for success, such as living in the "right" city, working at the "right" company, working out at the "right" gym, and meeting the "right" people, I would achieve my goals of career notoriety, financial security, fitness, and leisurely pursuits. Seems simple, doesn't it?

However, since my career began, I've been thrown several health-related curve balls, starting with a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis at age 26. With denial being my preferred method of dealing with obstacles, I ignored this threat, hid it from my employer and everyone outside my family, and continued to follow self-imposed "success" guidelines. I thought people who succumbed to health crises were weak, avoiding hard work, and giving up their dreams. George Washington, who was dyslexic, said, "99% of failures come from people who make excuses.” I rest my case.

FDR became a paraplegic from contracting polio and was relegated to a wheelchair in an era much less accommodating of people with disabilities. JFK had severe back problems and Addison's Disease, causing him to be hospitalized nine times, live in crippling pain, and take amphetamines, cortisone, and other serious drugs every day to manage his symptoms. Yet neither man let his challenges stand in the way of becoming President of the United States. So why couldn't I follow their example? My determination to persevere in the face of difficulty worked for years until I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer when I was 31 and my efforts became analogous to trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. As a result, my life has turned out differently than expected.

Although I had the best intentions to maintain a direct path, that plan didn't materialize. My road has been neither straight nor even "forked" once or twice. If you consider the practice of palmistry, which believes the lines in your palm grow over time and split when events cause you to pursue a different route or way of thinking, mine look like those of a person twice my age-- repeatedly intersecting like intertwining tree branches or tangled roots that have been growing underground.

Now I view my life as a seemingly endless ride on a local train I can’t debark-- a trip with dozens of stops but, unlike the train, the stops and destination are unknown. If there is a formula for success I was born with it but at the most inconvenient times all my constants became variables making it impossible to come up with the right answer. Or any answer at all. Or maybe x is the answer. The unknown.

Overcoming obstacles is an inherent part of achieving goals. I have never wanted to follow the wind wherever it takes me or be a "free spirit." I used to view people who did this as unable to hold commitments and shamefully uninterested in becoming productive members of society. I still do to some degree. And I don't believe everything happens for a reason. In fact, I agree with the popular meme "Everything happens for a reason, but what if the reason is you're stupid and make bad decisions."

I don’t know if I will live a long life. I don’t know if I want to. I have the feeling God needs me to stay here to endure more challenges, absorb more pain, and help more people before we can sit down and have a beer together. I'm getting used to my local train ride and learning from the experiences it presents knowing the value of x is not always obvious. When this happens, it usually means it's time to recalculate and create a formula that enables you to draw your own conclusion. Often the answer doesn't become apparent for years. But trust there is merit in every situation, especially difficult ones, because it is then when we discover our strength and evolve as individuals.

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MY LIFE AS A MISFIT TOY

5/14/2018

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The landscape of cancer is changing and requires a new approach to treatment that incorporates more resources to help survivors. Decades ago, those diagnosed with cancer were usually advised to get their affairs in order in preparation for their looming and often untimely death. Today, advances in chemotherapy, radiation, surgery, and early detection have allowed an increasing number of cancer fighters to live longer. Over the past 35 years, the five-year survival rate of all cancers increased 16%. In particular, survival of breast cancer increased 91%, survival of leukemia increased almost 29%, and survival of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma increased 26%. As of January 2016, the number of cancer survivors in the U.S. totaled 15.5 million and, in 2026, is expected to increase another 32% to 20.5 million.¹

These statistics are encouraging. However, surviving cancer poses other challenges to patients' physical and emotional health. For example, chemotherapy and radiation kill cancer cells but also weaken the heart, making survivors more susceptible to heart abnormalities and heart attacks. They also increase the likelihood of developing other ailments such as high cholesterol, diabetes, sexual dysfunction, kidney trouble, impaired mobility, and short-term memory loss. Also, aggressive methods used to treat childhood cancers have caused nearly 10% of its survivors to develop another cancer within 30 years.

Furthermore, most cancer survivors face psychological challenges such as depression and anxiety, making ordinary tasks like holding a job or maintaining close relationships difficult. Thirty percent of breast cancer survivors who worked when they began treatment were unemployed four years later. Adult survivors of childhood cancer are twice as likely to commit suicide. And cancer survivors live in constant fear of a recurrence which makes it nearly impossible to set long- and even short-term goals. Despite these facts, few initiatives exist to help survivors move past their traumas and regain control of their lives.

The U.S. has formal "re-entry" programs for veterans, the disabled, prisoners, immigrants, the unemployed, victims of abusive relationships, addicts, and others struggling with setbacks, but lacks a universal program that addresses the multitude of challenges cancer survivors face. As a survivor myself, a specific recovery plan would have been invaluable as I suffered logistical, physical and emotional setbacks for nearly a decade after battling breast cancer for nearly two years.

My introduction to the world of cancer began in 2001 when I was 31 years old. For about six weeks my right nipple was bloody and secreting a whitish liquid. Chalking it up to irritation, every day I would smear Neosporin on it, cover it with a Band-Aid, and go about my day. I didn't see my doctor because I was extremely busy and doubted there would be anything she could do for it. I assumed it would heal on its own. Months later, I needed a check-up for a persistent cough and, since my chest was already exposed, asked the physician to look at my other chronic problem. She referred me to a dermatologist who incorrectly diagnosed my condition as eczema. He prescribed me a cream and assured me it would get better in two weeks. It didn't. He then prescribed another cream, which didn't work either. Then another, which was equally ineffective. After two months of unsuccessful treatment with topical ointments, he biopsied it.

When the pathology report came back, it read "Paget's Disease," a rare form of breast cancer which manifests itself on the epidermis of the breast and usually indicates that one or more tumors are growing within it. Paget's Disease accounts for only 1% - 4% of all breast cancers and is typically found in women in their late 50s. Discovering it in someone my age was an anomaly. After hearing this news, my head started spinning with questions and disbelief.

Living in Boston, I was fortunate to be only 10 minutes from Dana-Farber Cancer Institute where I sought more information. After re-examining the tissue sample and confirming the diagnosis, they referred me to their doctor who specialized in Paget's Disease. At my appointment the following day, she did a physical exam of my breasts, then ordered other scans, mammograms and an MRI, all of which confirmed I had two large tumors growing in my right breast. Over the following week, she surgically removed tissue from the tumors, then the lymph nodes under that arm for evaluation. The results showed my cancer originated in the milk duct, broke beyond the duct wall to spawn the growing tumors, and spread to most of my adjacent lymph nodes. My cancer was invasive, Stage III out of IV, and approaching metastasis to my other organs. In addition to Paget's Disease, my cancer was her2/neu+++, a type of breast cancer caused by an over-manifestation of a protein that promotes the growth of cancer cells. Her2/neu cancer represents only 20% of all breast cancers and is the most aggressive type, especially in younger women.

As a successful business person who followed every nutritional and physical recommendation for a woman my age, I was shocked to learn I had cancer that infiltrated my body so extensively my days were numbered. It was unfair. I was young. And I made every effort to be a kind and compassionate person, which I thought was supposed to absolve you from major tragedies. I suddenly questioned the existence of God and wondered why I, of all people, would be chosen to endure this challenge.

While pondering this circumstance on many levels, my doctors recommended I immediately begin a relatively new, nearly two-year clinical study for her2/neu cancer that had not completely metastasized. The clock was ticking, so I took a leave of absence from my job and agreed to what the doctors thought was the most promising plan. This course of action resulted in five surgeries, nearly 100 six-hour chemotherapy infusions, regular heart scans, and seven weeks of daily radiation. After being dissected many times and saturated with chemicals and radiation, I completed my treatment at the end of 2002 and was released back to the "normal" cancer-free world. However, I was not advised on how to handle the profound ordeal I endured and was now lost in a place I once knew well.

Although bald, weak, and bearing large scars that advertised stolen parts of my body, mostly my breast, I was relieved to be alive. I no longer had to endure more surgeries which required bulky drainage tubes to hang from my incisions; or be impaled with hundreds of needles to remove tissue or blood, or administer chemotherapy or radioactive dye; or ingest half-a-dozen medicines every day to counteract the side effects of treatment; or give myself daily shots to help regenerate healthy cells that chemotherapy destroyed; or endure radiation therapy, which adds to your fatigue and burns your skin. I looked forward to my hair growing back, which took three years, but wigs, hair pieces, hats, scarves, and false eyelashes helped during the transition. I thought I paid my dues in spades and surviving cancer meant I tackled my major hurdle in life, earning me a hall pass for the rest of my days. However, I found life after cancer to be, in many ways, more difficult than battling cancer itself.

Six months after being discharged I discovered I was pregnant. I also realized my husband's drinking had escalated to alcoholism. Despite sending him to excellent doctors and a renowned rehab facility over 1,000 miles away for a month, his problem continued throughout my pregnancy and after I gave birth to our daughter, which occurred almost two months early. When we were finally able to bring her home, my husband continued to drink heavily 24 hours a day. My life with a drunk husband and a premature infant became untenable and dangerous, forcing me to leave my marriage and home with my daughter. Additionally, after noticing delays in her gross mobility, particularly her walking, she was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy at age two. And now I was raising her on my own. This seemed like more than enough to handle for someone who had just beat cancer, yet more challenges surfaced.

First, survivors must get regular follow-up exams. Since my cancer was Stage III, my exams were frequent and long. For the next three years, every three months I had to revisit the place where I was forced to acknowledge my mortality, accept that my body betrayed me and was forever altered, and relive the same uncertainty, stress, and pain I experienced during treatment and was now trying to forget. The exams became slightly less frequent but continued well into my recovery. Second, I discovered I was "relieved" of my job, causing financial strife due to exorbitant medical bills and loss of income. Third, finding new employment was a challenge because companies are reticent to hire people who have had serious illnesses. Fourth, my history of cancer sabotaged any chance of obtaining health or life insurance that wasn't astronomically expensive. Finally, by far the hardest problem was, and still is, the "cancer cloud" that constantly hovers overhead, reminding survivors that any stretch of good health can be instantly sabotaged with a recurrence. I've been cancer-free for over 15 years and still panic at the slightest ailment thinking it could be a sign of something far worse.

All of these factors fueled my feelings of isolation and defectiveness and I hated myself for not being as strong as I was before. The feeling of solitude for cancer survivors is weighty because nobody understands your situation except other cancer sufferers, who usually only talk about their cancer. It’s depressing and debilitating and erodes your self-esteem to the point where you feel like a fraction of what you once were. Unexpectedly, the survivor finds it is now when the hardest part of the fight begins.

Many people who never had cancer themselves but have lost a loved one to the disease feel a great wrong has been committed and want their beloved back, even for just one day. They don't understand why survivors aren't elated to be alive because they feel the departed would probably give anything to be in their shoes. I understand this is a difficult concept to grasp.

The best analogy I can fathom is the circumstance of a veteran. I don't know exactly how veterans feel, but assume it is incredibly challenging to fight overseas for months or years then be sent home to resume a former life. What many fail to realize is that veterans’ former lives have, most likely, changed beyond recognition, as have the veterans because of their experience. They may be grieving for friends lost in battle and suffer guilt for surviving. They may feel conflicted for going home because their mission overseas is not finished, other soldiers are still there fighting, and people they were trying to help are still suffering. They may have been exposed to atrocities they are struggling to reconcile. They may have been injured and now need wheelchairs, walkers, prosthetics or other assistive devices to function. Jobs, laws, technology and relationships at home are likely different, making it difficult to adapt. People they knew before their deployment may have died or moved away. And their children have matured or been born. The plight of the cancer survivor is comparable as he or she experiences many of the same obstacles impeding the ability to resume an old role in a new world.

Susan Nessim and Judith Ellis, two women who beat cancer at a young age, made a remarkable contribution to the cancer community with their book, "Cancervive: The Challenge of Life After Cancer" (Houghton Mifflin, 1991). This practical guide validates the common and unexpected physical and psychological challenges cancer survivors face and suggests ways to address them. Published nearly 30 years ago, little guidance existed to help cancer patients cope with the aftermath of survival. Such material is still scarce, leaving a growing contingent of the population a relatively unacknowledged afterthought. The book was the only resource I could find to help me. I even discovered it on my own without assistance from a "survivor group." What resonated with me most was their description of the three coping mechanisms to which survivors gravitate:

1) Denial: When survivors choose to completely dissociate themselves from the disease and may even deny they ever had cancer;

2) Involvement: When survivors regard their cancer as a profound life-changing experience and make it the centerpiece of their lives; and

3) Acceptance: When survivors find ways to accept what has happened, put it in perspective, and integrate the experience into their lives.

Nessim and Ellis acknowledge that option one and option two each has its place in the recovery spectrum but fully subscribing to either strategy jeopardizes complete healing, which can only begin when option three is embraced. Having finally found the book, I realized choosing denial as my sole coping mechanism was a mistake.

Tired of being viewed as a sick person and angry that my life plan was thwarted, I longed to return to the happy, successful, and optimistic girl I was before cancer. I wanted to reclaim my status as someone who evoked joy and peace in others, not worry or concern. Eager to distance myself from cancer as much as possible, I underplayed and even refused to acknowledge my experience, hoping it would suppress my bitterness and confusion. I thought denial, wine, and more lip gloss would help numb my circumstance, reclaim the years I lost, and move forward. Unfortunately, this approach only masked my feelings of betrayal and injustice as well as my broken heart. I still felt these emotions but nobody could see them because I wouldn't allow it. Feeling under-appreciated, overwhelmed and misunderstood, I lived in pain and cried alone often.

Two times in my life I contemplated suicide. The first was when I was diagnosed. Angry at God for handing me this sentence in the prime of my life, I wanted to trump him by killing myself. My thought was to swallow all the sedatives, painkillers, and anti-depressants my doctor prescribed me at once so I would drift into a deep sleep and never awaken. I was not one for slitting my wrists, hanging myself, or putting a gun to my head. Too messy. No, this was a much classier way to relieve myself of this anguish and die how everyone knew me-- as a mentally and physically wonderful person, not a troubled, diseased, and mutilated shell of a human being. The second time I considered hurting myself was during the endless wake of survival challenges. My pain, anger, and sorrow were unbearable. I was depressed and saw no end to my plight. Had it not been for my infant daughter for whom I was now responsible, I probably would have executed my plan.

But one day things took a turn for the better. Having moved back to Connecticut to be closer to my parents, I ventured to my mailbox and received an invitation to a Next Step retreat in Boston for young adults between the ages of 30 and 40. It explained that Next Step's mission is to "shatter limitations and elevate aspirations" of teens and young adults with life-threatening illnesses by helping them rediscover their strength during their transition to adulthood so they can better plan for the future. Doubting such a lofty goal could be accomplished in only one weekend, I was skeptical of the program and thought it would only amount to a few days of commiserating with other sufferers. However, I RSVP’d “YES” anyway, mainly because it was a free weekend in Boston. After the familiar two-hour drive on the Mass. turnpike, I arrived at my hotel, checked in to my room, and met my roommate-- a sweet and quiet girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. She also survived breast cancer, but carried herself with more composure than I, who had become a crying and confused person having difficulty handling problems I once surmounted easily. After we gave each other the abridged version of our stories, we rode the elevator down to the first floor to attend the welcome reception and meet the other “misfit toys.”

Upon arrival, I was pleasantly surprised to find that all the attendees were professional, stylish, smart, and kind. For that evening, knowing we shared the same enemy let us rekindle the personalities that were once our lead actors before illness forced them to become understudies. My optimism improved with every passing minute and I felt genuinely happy. After enjoying hors d’oeuvres, drinks, and conversation for a few hours, everyone retired to their rooms for the night.

The next day after breakfast, we began by sitting in a circle, introducing ourselves, and sharing our stories. Everyone listened attentively and offered compassion, support, and constructive suggestions. Some cried, including me. A lot. Among others, I met two beautiful and accomplished women with inoperable brain tumors. A man struggling to preserve his fertility. A married mother of three who was allergic to the chemotherapy drug critical to her survival. A woman who was fed through a tube surgically inserted into her stomach because her throat cancer prevented her from eating. A man who was given three months to live. And a married woman with a young daughter losing her sight who exhausted all medical treatment options and was following an all-natural, holistic, vegan diet with hopes it would add more time to her life. She brought all her own food, shakes, supplements, and teas. Following introductions, a life coach conducted workshops which helped us clarify our feelings, fears, and goals. We created art. We played games. We dined at upscale restaurants. And we were treated to a spa treatment of our choice. It was refreshing to enjoy these activities with similar young adults and for the first time since leaving the cancer center, I felt less alone.

I often think of the fighters I met during my journey, especially two women my age who were fighting breast cancer alongside me at Dana-Farber. Despite our different personal situations and cancer types, sharing the same enemy unified us and we called ourselves "C-Sisters." Together we laughed at funny stories, cried about our predicaments, and made sarcastic jokes about whether we could still be considered "women" since we no longer had the attributes society seems to value most in the gender, namely hair and cleavage. They finished their treatments before I did, then returned to their home states of Vermont and New York. I was happy for them that they were done, but missed their camaraderie as I still had another year of treatment ahead of me.

Many times I have wanted to check in with my "sisters" and others I befriended at the retreat but I stop before writing that email or reaching for my phone because I fear any one of them may have lost their battle, like the vegan woman who passed about six months after the event.  This is the duplicitous element of developing relationships while battling cancer. While no relationship is guaranteed to be completely devoid of difficulty, meaningful bonds formed during the cancer journey have a greater chance of causing pain because fear
usurps maintaining contact, leaving patients with unresolved emotions and no closure.  Nevertheless, the retreat was the single-most instrumental vehicle that enabled me to move on with my life. I enjoyed meeting all the participants because I learned from everyone's unique experience and felt fortunate I had the opportunity to benefit from their presence, even if only for 48 hours. I was also thankful I could offer the same to them. This perspective encouraged me to stop crying and put my energies to better use.

Cancer exposed me to another world which revealed the vast amount of pain people carry. I met patients who regretted choices they made, like their jobs, partners, or never traveling. Cancer was their wake-up call to change their lives before it was too late. I was happy they had these revelations, but sad they lived entirely for others and not themselves. I didn't realize the overwhelming number of compromises others made at the expense of their own happiness. Always confident, optimistic, and not yet a mother, I almost always did whatever I wanted. I don't believe in regrets because people don't go temporarily insane when they make decisions, but do what they need, want and can at the time. Cancer reaffirmed my decision to live this way.

I learned not to assume anything about anybody because you never know what crosses people are bearing. This philosophy increased my desire to help others, which boosted my self-esteem and gratitude for the important elements of my life like family, friends, a good reputation personally and professionally, and a sense of humor. By stepping out of my own situation and connecting with others I realized all human experiences, regardless of circumstance, like love, loss, sorrow, and pain, are common and unify us. I was able to accept the hand I was dealt and start playing it like it was the hand I wanted. I rediscovered my strength and now regarded my illness as a gift. During treatment I didn’t understand the tenet that cancer was a gift. I thought of it as a gift you couldn't return or exchange but now realize cancer granted me more wisdom and experience by my 35th birthday that many don't achieve in their whole lifetime. Cancer made my eyes bigger, my ears bigger and, most importantly, my heart bigger.

My body still shows the evidence of my battle, including the scars inherited from my surgeries and the permanent tattoos given in radiation therapy. For years I hated them. Now, they're a reminder I was strong enough to conquer what everyone thought was unconquerable. More than ever, I am thankful for my life and everyone in it. I am more patient. I forgive more easily. I don't harbor resentment because it's counter-productive and unhealthy. I revel in being a mother. I kiss my family and tell them I love them as often as possible. I am proud of the way I raised my daughter-- to be strong, independent, and take responsibility for her actions while remembering to always be kind and understanding. I don't fear death because I am confident I do my best in every situation with love and consideration.

I can't believe I ever thought about taking my own life. I've learned I am loved more than I knew and have more to contribute to the world than I thought. Most importantly, I realized my path will always be guided by love and hope which are far more powerful than fear and anger. I am lucky.

¹Journal of the National Cancer Institute, March 2017

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