Even If
Even IF
In the spring of 2012, just after Mother’s Day, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It all began when I discovered a lump and decided to get it checked. After a mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy, I was scheduled for a follow-up appointment a week later to discuss the results. I didn’t think it was anything serious—after all, we rarely do—and went about my week as usual. On that Friday morning, since my youngest daughter had afternoon kindergarten, I brought her along to the appointment.
After I checked in and settled into the waiting area, the nurse called me back. However, seeing my daughter was with me, she looked horrified and asked if my little girl could stay with the registration staff. At that moment, I knew something was wrong so I got my daughter situated and followed the nurse into a back office.
She sat me down and delivered the news: I had grade 3 invasive ductal carcinoma breast cancer. I would need surgery to remove the lump, followed by radiation and chemotherapy. While it was only stage one, the aggressive nature of the cancer required immediate treatment. She handed me a pink folder containing doctor names, my diagnosis, and pages for journaling. Then she directed me to another woman who would schedule my appointments. As soon as this woman saw me, she broke down in tears and hugged me tightly. It was a kind gesture, but it triggered panic. Up until then, I had remained surprisingly calm; in fact, the first nurse had commented on how well I was handling it. But now, I began to realize the gravity of my situation. Was this extra display of emotion a sign that things were worse than I thought?
The next few days were a blur of Googling my type of cancer (which we all know just causes more panic) and praying for reassurance. I remember one specific prayer where I pleaded to meet someone who had survived the same type of cancer; if I could just see that they had made it, I would feel a sense of hope. Over the following weeks, I attended numerous appointments with oncologists, radiologists, and surgeons.
When I first met the surgeon, his nurse entered the room and shared that she loved working with breast cancer patients because she herself had triumphed over it a few years prior. When I asked what type she had, I was stunned to learn it was exactly the same as mine. A few days later, my friend Wendy from church called to share that she had also battled breast cancer a decade earlier and when I asked what type, hers, too, was exactly the same. Given the many varieties of breast cancer, it felt like my prayer was answered and I would be okay. I was reassured not by one, but by two women who had faced the same ordeal.
With this newfound faith, I scheduled my lumpectomy and a port insertion for chemotherapy. Knowing that I would likely lose my hair, I took my daughters wig shopping. They found it amusing to try on different styles while I prepared for the inevitable. I began losing my hair after my third treatment and decided to shave it off. I thought I was ready for this, but the reality was overwhelming. Losing not just my hair but also my eyebrows and eyelashes left me feeling exposed and unrecognizable. Thank goodness for wigs and makeup; while I wasn’t trying to hide my battle, I needed to see a version of myself in the mirror to feel as though things were somewhat stable.
Alongside hair loss, chemotherapy brought on other unusual side effects. My hands felt like they were on fire, requiring ice packs for relief. My fingernails and toenails turned black, with a few falling off, while my taste buds vanished, making everything taste metallic. My bones ached as if I had arthritis, compounded by nausea, headaches, and the crushing fatigue that accompanies such treatment. I spent my summer undergoing chemotherapy every three weeks—feeling sick for a week afterward but often finding a brief respite in between treatments. During this time, people were incredibly kind to me, and my family and church community rallied around me, bringing meals, cards, flowers, books, smoothies, and bath goodies. Their generosity filled the gaps of neglect I had felt in previous years and I will forever be grateful for their support.
By fall, my chemotherapy treatments concluded, and I began six weeks of radiation, five days a week. This regimen wore on me, and I remembered Wendy’s words about feeling lonely during her own radiation treatments. Once I started, I understood completely. They would escort me into a cold, dark room and place me on a radiation bed, leaving me alone with my thoughts for about 15 minutes at a time. It was a solitary experience, and I shed more than a few tears during those sessions.
My radiation treatments wrapped up by mid-December, just in time for Christmas, which felt like a gift. I could celebrate the holiday cancer-free, my taste buds returning just in time for the festive treats, and my nails beginning to look healthier. If only my hair would grow back as quickly! Unfortunately, that took a bit longer.
Cancer was as challenging as everyone says, but for me, the hardest part was the lack of support from the one person who should have been there for me. I faced chemotherapy, radiation, and the demands of motherhood largely alone. This experience was a wake-up call—I became acutely aware that if someone couldn’t be present during my battle with cancer, when would they ever be?
Now, eight years later, I’m happy to report that I remain cancer-free. The path has been long, filled with soul-searching. I experienced good days, bad days, and countless meltdowns. Most mornings began with a breakdown, followed by a heartfelt prayer and a pep talk before I could face the day ahead.
There were moments when I questioned whether I would truly be okay. The doctors said I probably would be, but what if...? In those times, I had to learn to trust God; I didn’t have a choice. Ultimately, it was out of my control, and I had to surrender, telling God that even if things didn’t unfold as I wished, I knew it would be alright. He had always been there for me, and I believed He would be there for me again, Even If...
"It is well, it is well, with my soul..."
Comments
Post a Comment