In my readings, I discovered the books and video-tapes of Dr. Bernie Siegel. He founded the nationally renowned Exceptional Cancer Patients (ECaP) group. He discovered that his patients who survive months and years past their prognosis are the ones who participated in the treatment decision-making! In his book Love, Medicine & Miracles, Dr. Siegel poses a very powerful question: What will this disease permit you to do that you did not have the courage to do before? Before my illness, I did not have the courage to say no. I was tired, but I pushed myself. I did-n’t believe in the things I was doing, but I did them anyway for other people’s approval. The things I wanted to do for myself, I deferred because I preferred the approval of people I considered more significant than myself. Cancer changed all that. It allowed me to say no. Cancer excused me to do things I had wanted to do for a long time: rest...lay up and read...let people come to me . . . put myself first! The third lesson cancer taught me is: Love myself more. It was the love I’d been longing for.
I must be forthright with the next lesson. Look for good anywhere and you’ll find good everywhere. At the beginning of my treatment, I enrolled in a Dale Carnegie Public Speaking and Human Relations course. Each person in the course was required to choose one principle to practice for the entire course. The principle I chose was: Don’t criticize, condemn or complain. Immediately, I began seeing good wherever I looked for good. On the nights when pain orbited my body like an invisible satellite and I hadn’t slept for what seemed like days, I was enveloped in an aura of unsurpassed peace and confidence. I learned to experience more deeply the meaning of grace.
In mid-October, my hair came out. Since the weather was too cold to go bald, I had to find a head covering that suited my wardrobe and my personality. I chose baseball caps. Actually, I now have a wide variety of them; but my favorite was fuchsia! I wore it everywhere. And now that my hair is back, I still wear it. People would look at me then and laugh, but that—at least to me—was preferable to having them look at me in pity. What was the principle of this lesson? Enjoy the humor in my circumstances! It helped other people find courage in my attitude.
Next, I decided to live more vigorously. One of the dreams I had completely abandoned was finishing college. I acquired a student loan, re-enrolled in school full-time while working full-time, and missed only one class in 14 months. On February 11, 1993, I completed a B.A. in Management and Communications at Concordia University in Wisconsin, graduating summa cum laude, and delivering the valedictory address for my class. After an eight-month rest, I enrolled in graduate school and in another year, completed an M.A. in Gerontology (with a 4.4 GPA). We can do all things through the power of Christ (which I believe to be God residing in us)! Surviving cancer actually empowered me to believe I could do anything else!
Over the last four years, I have volunteered as a CanSurmount counselor—mainly to stay in touch with the power of what cancer taught me. Although my cancer experience seems to benefit and inspire many people, I am enriched and empowered talking with people who are just beginning cancer treatment. On February 11, 1994— the third anniversary of my remission—I received a call at work from the CanSurmount director. She wanted to know if I would counsel another patient with my diagnosis— Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. I consented and listened in shock as she instructed me in how to make contact with Mrs. Onassis. My next lesson was crystal clear: We are all one. In the grand scheme of things, our least common denominator is the will to thrive.
This year during National Cancer Survivor’s Day, I celebrated four-and-a-half years of remission by sharing the lessons I learned from cancer with other celebrants. I think one of my most important points was this: Between those of us who view cancer as a challenge and those of us who view cancer as a curse, the primary distinction is whether we perceive ourselves as victors or victims. As a cancer survivor, I proclaim the most important lessons of my life have been taught by cancer—a severe teacher. It has taught me the best way to live: Make informed choices. Do not avoid the hard choices. Love myself more. Look for good anywhere and find good everywhere. Enjoy the humor in my circumstances. Live vigorously and remember that we are all one!
Were I to reduce all my lessons to one concise moral, I would use the letters: G-O-D-I-S-N-O-W-H-E-R-E. It can be read, “God is nowhere!” or “God is now here!” Like everything in my life of any significance, the way I see it always depends on how I look at it.
Bernadette C. Randle
No Less a Starfish
About eight weeks after my first mastectomy, I agreed to accompany my husband on a business trip to Connecticut and Rhode Island during June, with the understanding that I could rest as much as necessary and not overdo it. In an attempt to make sure we balanced pleasure with business meetings, my husband asked if there was anything special I wanted to do while we were in that beautiful part of the country. Because I grew up in Arizona with desert and dryness I have always had a genuine love of and appreciation for the ocean. I suggested we try to get down to Newport beach if at all possible. For me, there is something therapeutic about the ocean. The waves, walking in the sand, watching the tide, just experiencing the presence of the ocean. Somehow I felt I would feel more connected to nature, myself and the healing process.
Armed with a map and directions from the lady who sold us our box lunches, we were on our way. The drive was beautiful and far shorter than we expected.
We gathered our things and headed for the shore. I couldn’t wait to take off my sandals and scrunch my toes in the wet sand. As we topped a hill, the beach looked like a patchwork quilt of beach blankets. I had never seen so many people on so little sand in all my life. We weaved our way through the crowd toward the water. As I took a step, I looked down, and to my utter surprise, saw a beautiful starfish. I thought to myself, How could this be? All those people, and no one stepped on it or even bent over to pick it up. I was as thrilled as a child. For me it was magic: my own personal gift from the sea. Then I realized something unique about this particular starfish. It had a message—a very special message. One of its arms was bent and curved around. At that moment, from someplace deep within me, I had an overwhelming awareness, a sense of meaning. This was no less a starfish because it had a bent arm, and I was no less a woman because I lost my breasts. I called it my “grace moment.” I realized it was no accident that I found myself on that beach, that day, at that moment.
This experience was simply an answer to my prayer. I knew I would survive breast cancer from that moment on. Furthermore, I had a message I would willingly share with others.
No matter what our setbacks, difficulties or pain, we can get through them. Only through these moments of hell do we reach deep down within our being and discover who we are, what we believe and what is important and “real” in our lives. We experience a “knowing of our soul.”
Today, I have my little starfish on a special table in my home. Every time I pass it I think of its message. I’m grateful for the insight having cancer gave to me and for a relationship with a Higher Power that blesses me with little miracles on a daily basis. Most of all, I am grateful to know in my heart that I am no less a woman because I lost my breasts to cancer. I am more than my limitations.
Katherine Stephens Gallagher
A True Learning Experience
On an overcast summer day, I sat on my duffel bag, sleeping bag and pillow waiting for my ride. I was filled with excitement and undue nervousness, unsure of what the next nine days had in store for me. I was on the road to volunteering for my first time at Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times, a camp for cancer patients, ages 7 to 18. Having no idea that this would be the most amazing week of my life, I faced perplexing questions: What if I have a camper who has an emergency? What if I get an uncontrollable cabin? What if I can’t handle the incredible emotional experience?
I was relieved when I was paired with a wonderful co–counselor who had been to camp twice before. Mary Anne and I instantly meshed. Pre-camp orientation ended and it was now time to he
ad down the hill to pick up the children. As we approached the Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles, my butterflies fluttered uncontrollably. One of the veteran counselors must have sensed my anxiety because he wrapped his arms around me to give me a bear hug and a simple wink to rekindle my confidence.
I decided to jump in and start having fun with these children, who had traveled from everywhere between San Diego to Bakersfield to forget about their troubles and enjoy a week of fun. Some campers were getting reacquainted with friends from past summers. Others stayed close in the comfort of their families, in an awkward position of not really wanting to hang out with Mom, but not convinced that branching out needed to take place right then.
As I surveyed the scene, I saw a few children who were amputees, some in wheelchairs, and a sprinkling of bald heads hidden under hats or scarves, but most of the campers looked as healthy as any other children their age. I noticed there was a group of seasoned campers singing camp songs in a circle. Since this was my first year, I was not too familiar with the proper lyrics and hand motions of “Super Lizard.” With a football in hand, I proceeded over to an “I’m too cool for Super Lizard” group of guys. I said, “Hi, I’m Lisa. Would you want to throw the football around?” In all honesty, I didn’t know a thing about setting up a football game, but I guess I sounded convincing because before long everyone wore wide smiles. The campers were having fun, and I sensed that a week would be much too short for this frolic. I was in paradise. I was having as much fun as the campers and enjoyed meeting all the patients, all the while recruiting more players. It did not take long for this group to assimilate. The boys showed off for the girls, while the gals either displayed their athleticism or were happy just checking out the male campers. One girl told me that she already knew she wanted to ask Michael to the dance, which, keep in mind, was days away.
We loaded the bus and I knew that this week was going to be great. At camp, we were assigned our cabins. Cabin Four consisted of eight 11-to 13-year-old girls, Mary Anne and myself. We stuck together like glue through all the exciting activities during the week. We had 10 different personalities and not all were angels. However, there was something strangely wonderful about being confined to a very small living space, which contained only two small mirrors and campers who woke up at 6 A.M. to be the first to use the showers.
One night during Cabin Nine’s teepee overnight, a night where each cabin gets a turn to eat and sleep outdoors in one large teepee, I was returning from taking Misty to receive her nighttime meds. We had just settled back into the warmth of our sleeping bags and it wasn’t five minutes before the “C-word” was brought up. I sat there quiet as a mouse, unsure what would happen next. “So what kind do you have?” They all shared and then within the same breath someone said, “So, who do you guys think is cute at camp?” They had answered their own curiosity, in addition to strengthening the bond they already shared. It was an intense few moments, but it did not take long for these campers to continue talking about important 11-through 13-year-old topics—such as boys. Yet these girls were amazingly knowledgeable, possessing more strength and wisdom than some people twice their ages. In the course of the week, I had almost forgotten they were sick. Every day they continually battled with cancer, a disease that many times we associate with adults. Cancer is a topic that most of us cannot cope with easily or lightly. These children will always be affected by this disease, yet for one week a year they live freely, surrounded by hope, inspiration, support and love, with kids just like themselves.
It was the last night of camp after the exciting dance. Energy ran high in Cabin Four. Mary Anne and I finally calmed our little dancers down enough to leave for the dining hall for a staff meeting. Two counselors patrolled the area, and we had a two-hour reprieve. We received reports that our cabin was laughing so uncontrollably that they could be heard throughout all the girls’ cabins. Curious if that was really true, Mary Anne and I peeked our heads across the barren field. All we could see were faint small lights resembling a harmless, competitive game of flashlight tag coming from where else but Cabin Number Four.
Two hours later, we returned to our cabin in good spirits and exhausted. The week had taken a toll on us. As I opened the door, Rosa was screaming, “Lisa, help!” I immediately put my arm around her and tried to ask her what was wrong. She continued to cry, trying to talk through her tears. “My ear hurts so bad; I have never been in so much pain.” Oh, my goodness, I had made it the whole week without any big problems. My initial horrific apprehensions were coming true. I was so scared that something serious might go wrong that I couldn’t handle, something they did not teach me at the camp orientation.
Here it was 2 A.M. and ironically, it was Rosa who was crying out for help on this day. The whole week Rosa and I had connected so well, and I had so much fun setting her up with all these dates for the dance. However, today Rosa had displayed a mean streak in her and turned vicious, especially to me. I knew this was her way to continue getting my attention. She kept pushing me until I lost my patience, which is something I rarely do, and I stormed out of the cabin. She really hurt my feelings, and I was so upset that Rosa was able to get the best of me earlier.
Now, Rosa lay in my arms, crying hysterically for me to help her. I was so frightened that something would happen to her. The other girls in the cabin were so exhausted that they rolled over and continued sleeping through all this commotion, while Mary Anne and I got Rosa dressed and over to the Med Shed. I just held her tight and kept telling her it was going to be okay, reassuring myself in the process. We woke up the nurse on duty and she checked out our terrified patient. It turned out that she only had a bad earache, and I can’t tell you how thankful we all were.
Often when I am consumed with trials in my life, I reflect back on those special children who possess knowledge and maturity beyond their years. I have learned from them that in comparison, my troubles are very insignificant. As a teacher who usually gives lessons daily, I feel that I was instead taught valuable lessons on the importance of life in those nine days. Those optimistic, risk-taking campers taught me the preciousness of life, illustrating that each day is a gift and to live to the fullest because no one knows what tomorrow will bring. From this incredible experience, I learned first-hand the importance of giving yourself to others and receiving much more in return than what you gave. Thank you for these important life lessons.
Lisa McKeehan
Humor Helps
I have always set personal boundaries of what is funny and what is not. I have been quoted as saying, “There are just some things you don’t poke fun at.” I was wrong. Laughter rises out of tragedy when you need it the most and rewards you for your courage.
Without it, it would have been impossible to imagine how these children and their families could have endured their load.
The giddiness of a moment when 15-year-old Jessica, Burlington, Vermont, with a “below the knee” amputation, was playing soccer and not only the ball, but her prosthesis sailed through the air leaving “the tall, gorgeous, humorous person I am” convulsed on the floor with laughter.
Sometimes it was a situation that cried for perspective. Ryan was treated for neuroblastoma at age three with surgery and radiation. Eleven years later, he emerged with no health problems, but there was just one little glitch. He only perspires and blushes on one side of his body. Ryan may use less deodorant than the rest of us, but his sense of humor was left intact, as is evidenced by his artwork.
Betsy of Boston, Massachusetts, speaks of optimism and humor as her “caretakers” during her bout with cancer. It put the following experience in perspective. The 17–year-old entered a treatment room to receive her radiation therapy. Several people were already there so she dropped her gown and prepared to get on with it. Upon questioning she found that the extra people in the room weren’t medical students as she had assumed, but painters there to estimate the cost of repainting the room!
Worth noting is that the incident happened in
1965, and Betsy added, “I wish there had been organizations and opportunities available 24 years ago to allow me to share ‘experiences’ rather than ‘memories.’”
Erma Bombeck
EDITORS’ NOTE: Erma Bombeck died on April 22, 1996 due to complications from a kidney transplant. Her courage and strength exemplify the spirit of this book. We mourn her passing with great sorrow.
Cancer Introduced Me to Myself
One secures the gold of the spirit when he finds himself.
Claude M. Bristol
A three-day wait for the results, which I already know in my gut. Three days lying flat on the couch, staring as the television changes programs hour after hour. The phone rings. They’ll cut off my breast on Monday. I am 13 weeks pregnant. I am 33 years old.
They do it. They really meant it. My right side has a 12–inch incision; no lymph glands, no breast. There are 12 more tumors in my glands.
I have three choices: immediate abortion, a cesarean section or induced labor at about 30 weeks, or a full-term delivery. My cancer is hormone-positive, and my body is lousy with hormones. I can’t have any of the usual cancer therapy if I keep the baby. Even with an abortion and therapy, my chances are a shattering one in six for five more years of life.
I choose to go for 30 weeks. I don’t choose it to save the baby. I choose it to get out of the hospital, so they won’t do anything more to me now. They pull two long, sucking tubes out of my side, and I go home. It is January in Minnesota, as frozen as you can get, unless, of course, you are pregnant and have cancer.
When you are a human time bomb, it is a lot longer than five months from January to May. Each day my baby grows, more of the hormones, so enormously dangerous to me, flood my body. There is little reason to hope that I will complete the pregnancy with no further cancer spread. I am so numb, so angry, so very, very sad that my face freezes into an expressionless mask. I lose the ability to read (previously one of my greatest joys), because my concentration is completely destroyed. I don’t expect to see my girl become eight years old on June 30, 1978. I buy all her gifts and wrap them in February. I plan my burial.