~Sheryl Crow
"What did I do wrong?" I cried out. The surgeon spoke in subdued tones, quoting statistics and survival rates, but I had stopped listening. Fear drowned out his words. This couldn't be happening to me! None of it seemed real.
One in eight!
There were a multitude of reasons for me to stick around — a husband of twenty years who was my lover, best friend, and father to our two boys, ages nine and fourteen, whom I desperately wanted to see through safe passage into adulthood. They were in the next room when I received the news.
Jon, my younger son, was terrified and immediately made a card from computer paper with two bunnies hugging each other. The words were simple, but came from the heart: "Mom, I love u, even though u have cancer!" Seeing the words "mom" and "cancer" in the same sentence created a surge of terror in me. What were they going to do if something happened to me? I hung the card on the refrigerator door as a reminder of what I was fighting for.
The following weeks were a blur of tests, more biopsies, and second opinions. At one point there were three doctors in the exam room — all delivering more bad news. I went from lumpectomy to double mastectomy within seconds. Laughter mixed with tears as I contemplated still more decisions.
Two weeks later, all the results were back and I only had "half" as much cancer as they originally thought. I would just need a lumpectomy — not a double mastectomy! I continued to work full-time through surgery, treatment, and finally radiation.
Working in the medical field, I simply knew too much. So in an effort to alleviate my anxiety, I would leave on my forty-five-minute lunch break for my radiation treatments and repeat the words: "Can't be late to radiate. Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go!"
Upon my arrival at the hospital, I would tap on the granite counter and say, "Excuse me, do you have my tanning bed ready?" The receptionist glanced up with her crinkling eyes and smiled. "I'll be sure to let them know you're here!" There's absolutely nothing funny about cancer, but making jokes was how I coped with my painful illness.
On the last day of treatment, which I know was a great relief to everyone on staff, I received the news I never wanted to hear — words regarding my survival rate. The metal door opened widely and the radiation oncologist entered, holding my now thickened chart in his hands. In a matter-of-fact tone, he announced, "I need to go over a few details before you leave. There are some long-term consequences of treatment that I need to discuss with you." As he enumerated the lengthy list, my mind wandered back to the pink brochure that was handed to me on the first day of treatment — the one I didn't want to read! As my feet dangled back and forth on the exam room table, I watched as the wall clock ticked off the seconds, and wondered just how much time I had left.
The doctor finished his discussion and ended with the word "death." What? Was that supposed to cheer me up? Obviously the doctor was oblivious to my fragile emotional state. Without a safety net to catch me — I "fell." I don't remember walking out into the dimly lit parking lot, how I drove home that evening, or how the dozen pink celebratory roses made it from the car to the kitchen table, but depression had replaced fear.
In an effort to get me "better," my husband sent me off to California to visit my folks. I'll never forget their expression when they saw me step off the plane. I was a mere skeleton with a zombie-like gaze — shuffling through the crowd of passengers. My parents tried to make small talk on the drive home, but they too fell silent.
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Seven days later, in quiet desperation, my parents sent me back to Pennsylvania. When my husband, Mark, picked me up at the Baltimore Washington Airport, his face showed his shock and disbelief. I was in far worse shape than when I had left.
As we drove up the driveway to our home, I noticed the backyard had been perfectly landscaped. There were colorful flowerbeds where mounds of dirt had been. And in the center of the yard was a beautiful pink dogwood tree in full bloom. I pointed to the tree and asked, "What's this?"
Mark gazed into my eyes and said, "This is our tree of life — we're starting a new beginning. God hasn't brought us this far just to leave us." For the first time in weeks, I saw a glimmer of hope; it was brief, but it was there.
The next few weeks allowed me to build on that glimmer, and one afternoon, as I looked out at that beautiful pink dogwood tree, I asked myself the question. "What if I only had a year to live; what would I do differently?" I randomly wrote down twenty-seven things I wanted to do before I died. They included such things as: go back to Italy to visit friends, take a photography course, write a book, and #27 — skydiving.
I laid the list down on the small oak table in the kitchen. Later that day, Mark picked up the list and read each one out loud. Afterwards he announced, "I'm going to help you accomplish every one of those goals and when that list is finished we'll write another one and another one… for the rest of your life."
That was seventeen years ago and today I've accomplished every one of those goals, except #27! I'm thankful for cancer in many ways — as crazy as that sounds. Not that I want to re-live the events of the past seventeen years, but I simply can't imagine my life without them.
On our twentieth wedding anniversary, we celebrated with a cruise to the Bahamas. Under moonlit skies, I whispered a silent prayer and thanked God for allowing me to experience life by facing my own mortality.
Life has become a series of celebrations — both big and small. But the greatest joy of all has been seeing my boys through safe passage into adulthood. They are now twenty-seven and thirty-two, pursuing passions of their own, which my bout with cancer taught them to do.
Now when I look in the mirror and see a "few" gray hairs and wrinkles (I call them laugh lines), I smile back and say, "What did I do right to deserve a second chance at this gift called life?"
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