At this point in my journey I am faced with, as I see it, an impossible choice between honoring the wishes of my family and trusting my own intuition. I have followed my intuition since my diagnosis, have done everything in my power to allow my body to heal itself while, in typical April fashion, giving the establishment the finger and reacting like a bucking bronco to anyone who has the balls to look at me and tell me that I have to do anything. A sticking point, for sure.
At the time of diagnosis, more than a year ago, I was told that the cancer was likely already invasive, given the size of the “area of irregularity.” This is not something they can know for sure until surgery, an option I refused until three weeks ago. In the meantime I’ve stared cancer down every single second, on my own, against a barrage of judgment, fear, misunderstanding, and relentless angst from within and without. I’ve said to my husband (and at this point, my therapist...another new one for me!) that the worst part about this entire experience so far has been other humans.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t also say that other humans have been the best part about this past year. You know who you are. I love you and offer you the deepest gratitude a soul can know.
Despite negative results from a biopsy performed prior to surgery on a suspicious lymph node, the cancer was found to be invasive at the time of mastectomy. I had 100% faith that the needle biospy result was conclusive, that the cancer had not spread to the nodes, and I came out of surgery bouyant and ready to leap forth into the rest of my life. I was on cloud nine. I did not miss my breast, despite the new and alien 9-inch scar worming from breastbone to armpit. My immediate sense was that I was cancer-free. The saga was over.
I was wrong. But here’s the rub, and something I don’t think most people understand: I could be right. There is a very, very good chance that all of the cancerous cells in my body were removed along with the surgery. Believe it or not, though, in the year 2014, modern medicine has still not divined a way to test for this. So if you’re like me, and there is no evidence of disease, but you have nodal involvement, they give you chemo and radiation just in case. In my life, if there is such a thing as my worst nightmare, I’m pretty sure this is on the super short list, number two behind something else I will decline to form on paper. I’m more comfortable, much more comfortable, breathing through the what-if’s and trusting that the cancer is gone. My immune system has been relieved of a very hefty tumor burden. I trust it’s ready to kick ass on any stray cells.
If I lived in a vacuum that’s the route I would take. But, like a dear friend who also happens to be a physician reminded me recently, I chose to be married and have a family. If you believe the statistics (another biggie for me, not so sure I trust the studies or much else being generated by the pharmaceutical machine), then conventional treatment has the potential to significantly decrease my chance for recurrence. My husband is latched onto these numbers with terrified ferocity. This isn’t an issue he has any intention of relenting on, and the wrangling between us has already become unbearable. He loves me. He just wants me to live.
I want to live too. The flip side for me is that I could be one of the people that never would have had a recurrence anyway. I could be subjecting myself to all of the side effects, some of them life-threatening, for nothing. Because somebody else wants me to.
This has brought me to a spiritual intersection. So many well-intentioned and supportive friends and loved ones have said to me, you have to do what’s right for you, listen to your gut, this is YOUR journey and only you know what’s best for you. I’ve latched onto these ideas and sunk my nails into them like some sort of indignant tiger. This is MY fucking life!
Except, in the most honest part of myself, the part that is not smothered in egotistical ire, I know it isn’t. It’s not just my life. I did choose to have a family. Their wishes actually do count.
In my heart of hearts I know I am going to be fine regardless, either path I choose. And if I’m honest with myself and really want to be true to my ideals, then I need to head on into the fire. One of the qualities I’ve always tried to hone within myself is the ability to stare down fear, to never make a decision based on fear, and to understand in my soul that that which scares the shit out of us is exactly where we need to go. I thought I was doing that by staring down the hideous gullet of this diagnosis, alone, for the past fear. And I was. I have been. This has been some scary shit. But chemo, for me, is even more scary. It’s the scariest thing on the face of the planet.
During the past couple weeks I’ve endured my first nightmares since being diagnosed, my first uncomfortably sleepless nights. In the original dream, the instant the viscous poison dripped into my body I could feel its evil presence begin locking me up into a motionless wad of fear and helplessness the likes of which I’ve never felt in waking life. The sensation was inescapable, coming from the inside out in this claustrophobic vise-grip. They had me. They had won.
Winning/losing. Right/wrong. My way/your way. This is where my lesson lives. This is why I have to do the treatments I said I would NEVER do, to trust the people I said I would never trust, to soften and open to possibilities I have, for as long as I can remember, adamantly refused to consider. While my assertive nature resists this invitation to accept, receive, and in many ways become more passive than I am comfortable being, I’m beginning to understand that this is how I have to conform.
Tomorrow I see my medical oncologist and radiation oncologist for the first time. They work as a team along with my surgical oncologist, and because of this have already reviewed my pathology reports and shared their intentions with my surgeon. In short, I have a basic outline already of what they will propose. As I breathe my way through the preliminary paperwork and allow myself to encourage whatever emotion that needs to find its way through me to do just that, I offer up prayers for strength, for acceptance, for trust. I open the palm of my hand, relinquishing the closed fist I’ve brandished for a year, allowing my will to soften to the hope of possibility, and my spirit to believe that all is well. Without force. With only love.
Om shanti.
thank you for sharing your journey, April.
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