I got my wake-up call on Friday, January 4, 2008. Cancer – or as I prefer to call it, Crud. Breast Crud. Local advanced. As I write this, I am still in the diagnosing phase – or in medical jargon, “being staged.” I am adding professional pincushion to my resume. I’ve never been stuck with more needles than in the past month, but I know it’s for a good cause – to save my life.

Part of the reason for my sharing this news is cautionary. I did something I would urge no woman to do: I missed one year of having my annual mammograms. And something else: the last time I did have my annual mammogram, the radiologist saw something in my right breast and said, “we’ll watch this.” Now I know that if someone ever says, “we’ll watch this” to me again, my answer will be “no, I think I’ll have a second opinion and a biopsy, thank you very much.” But I didn’t know that’s what I should have said.


And when the surgeon asked me, “Couldn’t you feel this lump?” I replied, “well, my boobs have always been very lumpy.” How was I supposed to know which ones were dangerous? Of course, now I know. If you have a lump that is as hard as a rock, call your doctor right now. Today. It may be nothing, but why take the chance? Early detection is a woman’s best chance to catch breast crud early, survive and thrive.

I didn’t know or call or worry, so here I am at local advanced and maybe then some. Those Crud cells sure can skitter around the body. My job is to stop them and I plan to as soon I start my treatment. I have convinced myself that I am fearless (but I’m really not) and that I will do whatever it takes to get to my goal: No Evidence of Disease (that’s the euphemism the medical profession uses today to mean “cured.”) I am going to sign up for any clinical trial for which I qualify and take any drug no matter how nasty to rid myself of the Crud. And if it helps the generation of women coming after me – including my own daughters who have now slid into a higher risk category – that will be great. But believe me, I’m not all that altruistic. I am hoping that there will be some benefit to me as well.

I am in a partnership to get myself well – my caregivers will bring all of their excellent medical training and experience to my case and I will bring the most positive attitude and forward-driving energy that I can muster every day.

Everyone keeps telling me that I’m going to be OK and I am digging deep to believe them. I have taken a giant leap of faith here that my docs can fix this and feel very blessed to be living in Boston where there are fabulous institutions filled with fabulous doctors, nurses, technicians, staff and volunteers. My only sadness is that they’re all filled to the rafters – business is brisk these days. It’s heartbreaking.

When it was taking days or weeks between appointments I would tell myself, “Well, obviously I wasn’t the only one diagnosed with cancer this week.” But now I’ve learned to push my way to the front of the line because sometimes time is of the essence. And the squeaky wheel – if she’s polite and funny – can help herself along the way. Oh, and giving out lollipops and smiling helps, too.

So although I’ve fallen down Alice’s medical rabbit hole, and have to learn what seems like a whole new language, there are definitely some bright spots that are important to report. You find out who your friends are and then they come out of the woodwork to envelope you with support, encouragement and love. You meet the most wonderful people along your journey back to wellness. And finally, you have a fresh awareness and appreciation of all the good stuff in your life – family, friends, nature and good health.

In the movie “Shakespeare in Love” one character or another is always asking, “What’s going to happen next?” That’s the big question for anyone diagnosed with cancer – or any illness for that matter. The answer given throughout “Shakespeare in Love” – “I don’t know. It’s a mystery.” That is also the answer for those of us going through the diagnosis-to-treatment-to-wellness journey. The trick is embracing the mystery and staying positive.

Finally today I got just enough good news (whoever thought being diagnosed with Stage III breast cancer could be good news?) to really believe that I am going to be fine. I will fight and beat my Crud. I will give away thousands of See’s lollipops to everyone who helps me in any way. And I will learn a great deal about myself and life’s mysteries along the way.

Written January 31, 2008

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