Give Me A Reason

by Jennifer Miller

  As we approach the designated mammography and breast cancer informational area, my heart starts pounding in my chest. There are workers walking around in pink shirts with the signature ribbon logo, there’s a hung pink balloon arch leading to chairs available for listening to speakers. There are free charts showing women how to do self-breast exams, there are booths where you can sign up to get a free mammogram in the onsite mobile unit. There are touchable displays that show what a normal breast versus a breast with a lump would feel or look like and information about the various types of breast cancer. What really gets me though, is the wall with a tarp on it that says “IN MEMORY OF” and there are so many names I can barely differentiate one from the other. I feel like a balloon that’s instantly deflated. Oliver looks at me questioningly and clearly having no idea what’s troubling me, squeezes my hand because I’ve tightened my grip on his. He’s offering me comfort.

  I feel emotional. I feel overwhelmed. I feel my stomach tighten and twist and emotion clog in my throat that I’m no longer just a woman attending yet another event or even one seeking or seeing organizations offering help, support and information – I’m a part of it. I’m a representation of why this entire display exists. It feels as if reality takes one big wind up and releases a smack directly onto my face.

  I’m about to tell Oliver that I think I’d like to leave when something catches my attention. I’m suddenly looking at attractive posters identifying their event keynote speakers containing brief bios that describe their situations. I quickly catch a few phrases on one individual and I find myself intrigued. The words resonate within. Without realizing it at first, I’ve pulled Oliver to the seats in front of the stage where the individual on the poster is due to come on in – I look at my phone – five minutes. The seating is starting to fill up – which momentarily astounds me - and before I can think twice, I grab Oliver and take him to a couple of seats. “I wouldn’t mind listening if that’s okay? If it’s not something I’m interested in we can duck out, is that okay with you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  We sit and make small talk until a woman comes out to introduce the first guest speaker and as she makes her way on stage, she’s greeted with applause.

  Hi. My name is Melanie Harlow and in 2008 I felt a lump in my left breast. At the time I was in-between jobs, my husband had been laid off and we had an insurance lapse. I put off going to the doctor because I was concerned about the money we’d have to spend out of pocket for the tests I knew I would have to get in order to find out if what I was experiencing was of true concern. So, I did my best to ignore its presence. I eventually landed a job and within four weeks was offered a permanent position and insurance. I finally went to see a doctor and sure enough a mammogram and blood tests were ordered and conducted. The initial mammography was not conclusive, so I had to have a second. That was followed by a biopsy. At the end of all of that, as I had suspected and feared, my doctor ended up telling me the three words I was terrified to hear from the moment I discovered the lump, ‘You have cancer’.”

  My eyes burn with emotion recalling the day I heard those same words myself. “Long story short, over the last several years the cancer has spread to my lungs, kidney, liver, and brain. I’ve had multiple surgeries – mastectomy, hysterectomy, even brain surgery to remove the tumors and more hospitalizations that I ever imagined possible. I’ve undergone rounds of chemotherapy and radiation. I’ve tried a few experimental treatments as well. And as a result, I’ve had every possible side effect you can possibly imagine. At one point, my doctors gave me mere months to live, and though it has been challenging, I’m still here years later. And these years. Wow! These years I’ve tried to live life fully and craft my story while confronting the likelihood that my days are numbered, that this year could possibly be my last. But good years too. Years I learned a new language, traveled a bit, and volunteered. Years I chose to have my two, if I may say so, adorable children, despite needing to interrupt doctor-desired treatment – and years I’ve enjoyed watching them grow and become such incredible people and have planned and plotted ways to ensure that they are tightly bonded to their father. Years I’ve been privileged to fall in love with my husband more and more every day. Why am I telling you all of this? Because recently my doctors told me I wouldn’t likely live more than another year without more treatment and even less without. So, while shocked that I’m still alive, the tentativeness of my life continues to confront me- but today, I’m still here.”

  The crowd claps for her and I see several people in the crowd nodding. She waits for it to quiet down and then she continues. “We each get to write our own story. And I’m not here to tell you how to write yours. I’m here to share my unique story, or bits of it. Others will speak and share a very different experience. Me? I vacillated more weeks than others were comfortable with while formulating my thoughts, my decisions, and my approach. Ultimately, I made a decision to fight tenaciously for my life. I was worth it. I was here for a purpose that I was not sure I had yet fulfilled. I had reasons to be here, of that I was sure. Oh, I knew there were absolutely no guarantees that any of the available treatments would work and certainly any future developments were unclear. But I had a choice. And that was mine alone. Once made, I followed through with it passionately, as though my life depended on it.” I listen as the crowd responds with a uniform chuckle at her humor.

  “I get asked all the time what my advice to others in similar situations would be – and what my survival mechanisms have been. So let me share. First, my advice is simple – make a personal choice. And then, craft your plan. I inked it all out. And for me, I will tell you this - one part was getting on my knees and praying every day. I pray that God will keep me alive and provide more time with my sons and husband. Prayer allows me to express those things that are hard to confess or share with others. It allows me to purge emotions and seek and obtain mercy; to rejoice, cry, forgive… but most of all, for me, it is life-giving and life altering. Prayer isn’t your thing? Okay, then find a creative outlet, exercise, maintain a healthy diet, get involved with a support group, rely on the excellent listening skills and love from your family and friends. I don’t believe that there’s one right approach to this hideous disease, not a good or bad, right or wrong choice. Rather, I advocate searching one’s heart and making a personal decision that reflects being true to oneself. By all means, seek knowledge and information so your decision is an informed one, but set boundaries too, as it is so easy to get overwhelmed. And then make decisions that are right for you regardless or in spite of what your doctor or doctors or friends or family tell you. If I believe anything, I believe that we each have a right, no an obligation, to use this as an opportunity to be true to ourselves. This diagnosis – should you find yourself confronting a diagnosis of cancer, only God knows how it will inevitably impact you. I share my story not in hope that you will imitate me. But in the hopes that you will also find your own way and find peace and rest in the knowing that you did what was right for you.”

  When she finishes everyone claps for her and I’m no exception. Turning to Oliver, I hold his hand tight in mine, “I know what I want to do.”

  I’m nervous. I was doing okay until I called to make the appointment and they connected me to a nurse. She seemed relived to hear from me. She mentioned that they’ve been trying to reach me for several days and I hadn’t returned their calls. When I asked her why they had been trying to reach me, instead of answering, she connected me with the front desk to make an appointment for the next day. Typical. I didn’t push though since an appointment was why I was calling in the first place.

  “Stop picking and biting the side of your nails,” Oliver says pulling my hand away from my mouth.

  “Sorry, I can’t help it.”

  “I know, but you’re destroying them. And you’re bleeding.” He hands me a tissue and feeling rightfully chastised I wipe the blood from my finger and begin bouncing my knee in nervousness instead since clearly chew
ing on my finger is out.”

  “It’s going to be okay. No matter what.”

  I nod, “I know.”

  “Remy?” The nurse with a chart in her hand calls my name and Oliver and I stand. It feels strange, as everyone else in the office looks our way as we walk to the door she’s holding open. I know it’s human nature but I feel like I’m in a circus, “Step right up folks and take a look at the bearded lady. The bearded lady with breast cancer.”

  Pushing the thought from my mind I grip Oliver’s hand and attempt a smile for the nurse.

  After she directs me to the scale and records my weight, she leads me to the exam room and takes my vitals. We aren’t waiting long before Dr. Peters walks into the room.

  “Hello, Remy. We’ve been trying to reach you by phone for several days.”

  Brow furrowing I look at Oliver to find he’s got his own furrowing going on from his chair in the room. Concern is clear on his face and my stomach begins churning. “I was out of the state. The nurse mentioned the same thing. Why? Is something wrong?”

  “How are you feeling?” he asks avoiding the question which only amps my anxiety up another notch.

  “I’m feeling good. Nice and rested after a little getaway.”

  “That’s good. You look good.” He takes a seat on the stool and takes a deep breath. “I’ve had my office try to reach you because if you recall when you left my office the last time, we still hadn’t received your final biopsy results, but given your blood test results, family history, the malignant tumor in your breast, I was fairly certain of the results we would receive on the biopsy from your lymph nodes.” I try to decipher the expression on his face but am unable.

  My stomach drops further, “Yes, I do recall that.”

  “The reason I’ve been trying to reach you is because the results from that biopsy came in as well.”

  I nod because there’s no way I could speak a word if I wanted to. I’m fairly certain I’m holding my breath. Oliver leaves the chair he was sitting in and instead comes to stand beside me and reaches for my hand holding it tight in his own. I look at him quickly and while I know there’s concern laced in my eyes there’s also love there - love and also gratitude for the fact that I’m not alone.

  “The results were negative.”

  It takes a moment for his words to sink in. There’s complete and utter silence in the room and I stare at him blankly. “What?”

  “The results from your lymph’s came back benign. There is no cancer in your lymph nodes.”

  Oliver’s grip on my hand is so tight I almost whimper with the pain, but the absolute joy I’m experiencing is far more impactful than the squeeze.

  “Wow. I mean. Wow. I – I - don’t even… I don’t know…” I start to cry.

  “We’ll still have to contend with the breast cancer but the fact that it’s localized is great news. I still recommend a mastectomy with reconstructive surgery so that we can be sure we eliminate all the cancer at the source, but this is a far less invasive procedure and while a little scary, can possibly put you in remission quickly. I still suggest doing a round of chemotherapy afterward, but I think we can reevaluate the need for radiation after chemotherapy. I’d like you to see a radiation oncologist to garner his opinion as well. And I can provide the name of the surgeon I’d recommend, unless you have someone in mind. Assuming that’s the route you want to take.”

  Nodding, I say quietly. “It wasn’t. But it is now.” I look at Oliver and I smile only to find that tears are silently rolling down his cheeks too.

  “I’m going to give you both a moment and then I’ll be back so we can discuss this further.”

  He slips out of the room and Oliver immediately takes me in his arms and smacks a loud kiss on my mouth. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Me either. I’m in shock.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this? Still? Even knowing that he’s painting a different picture than what you were expecting?”

  “Yes. I already told you that I found my reason – and I’m going to make it happen. Plus, as a bonus, there’s you. Oliver, I get more time with you.”

  “We will make the most of every single minute, of every single day. As long as we both shall live.”

  “As long as we both shall live,” I repeat, remembering him saying the same thing in Hawaii. “I can’t wait.”

  He picks me up in his arms and right there in the doctor’s office, oblivious to everything but the two of us, he swings me around and cheers loudly all while I laugh. I may have cancer, I may have a tough surgery and recovery in front of me, but that’s not who I am. It doesn’t define me nor will I give cancer the right to determine my journey, the life I’m choosing to live – I can clearly see my path now and I won’t allow anything, including myself to become an obstacle. I was meant for more.

  ONE YEAR LATER

  As I walk onto the stage, the silence from the crowd is almost enough to make me turn around and run the other way and forget I ever agreed - no chose - to do this. My heels make a clicking sound that seems to echo throughout the entire building. I imagine what I look like to them – a slightly thin woman wearing a blue shirt with a mustard yellow cardigan, cropped jeans and my favorite brown booties. I have a breast cancer ribbon pin firmly in place on my sweater and my hair while grown back some is still extremely short.

  Taking my place behind the podium, I take a moment to myself before I begin. I find confidence by taking a deep breath and locating the eyes belonging to the man I love in the front row. I find strength in them and begin.

  “Hello. My name is Remy Sinclair. I am a dreamer, a passionate woman in love with an incredible man that I met when we were only six years old when I moved in next door to him. He quickly became my best friend and now we’re engaged to be married,” I tell the crowd while fingering the large diamond on my left finger, “and we are smack in the middle of wedding planning. He’s the most important person in my life.” I pause, then continue, “I’m a partner at an accounting firm, have a huge and fat cat named Meatball that vacillates between loving me and planning my murder – I’m convinced.” They laugh and I feel myself starting to relax a little. “My mother, who was also my best friend, taught me the important art of list-making. Not just any list, but strong, thoughtful, solid lists. And like her I tend to require one for everything. I collect mugs, love coffee, the color blue and lazy Sunday’s spent in my pajamas. I live each day and moment fully.” I pause. “I hate horror flicks, frogs,” I smile looking at Oliver who returns it, “and most vegetables.” There are some chuckles again and then I add, “Oh. And I happen to have had breast cancer.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you. When I first received the diagnosis I thought it was the end of my life. Initially thinking the cancer had progressed further than it actually had, my intention was to not pursue any treatment. You see, my mother, she died from breast cancer. It was hard and vicious and in the end it took her life. I was absolutely convinced that my story would be the same as hers.”

  Switching gears for a moment, I share, “Even though I had initially made that decision, I still did a lot of research, read what I could, learned as much as possible. I tried to keep an open mind. Something I read over and over again was what a ‘fighter’ or a ‘warrior’ I needed to be – and surprisingly that made me angry as hell. It made me feel as though I chose this and nothing could be further from the truth. I didn’t choose this – I’m not a fighter that enlisted in the military. I can’t shoot it with a gun or stomp it down with force. Not to mention, calling me a fighter suggests that there’s a loser in this battle. Additionally, all of those statements seemed to give strength and power to cancer. And raising up and fighting an enemy was the last thing I wanted to do. Thinking about the potential hatred and anger I would need to muster to confront such a powerful enemy left me feeling exhausted and fearful of defeat before my supposed battle had even begun. So, no, this was not the mindset for me. Sorry, there is no way in hell, regardless of th
e outcome, that anyone is ever a loser in this situation. No matter my decision, your decision, no matter our journey, we are not a loser in this.”

  There’s clapping and nodding heads of agreement that makes me happy to see I’m not alone in this feeling and I hope I’m not offending anyone that chooses to call it that, as this is only my opinion. “Here’s the thing, this journey that we get forced to walk without our permission – we do have a choice in this. I know that you’re likely going to be pushed to make decisions quickly, perhaps before you feel fully informed and able to do so. You may not even want to ask questions at first, afraid for the answers you may receive. And the terminology that’s often thrown at us can be confusing and even misleading. Initially it felt like cancer didn’t give me an opportunity to approach my decisions rationally or in a timeframe that met my needs. I felt like I had no choice. And perhaps you have felt that too. But deciding what we do about it, whatever we decide to do after we get that diagnosis – is our choice. And perhaps of the most important you will ever make.

  Look, the reason I decided I wanted to stand before you today is because while I respect and value other speakers I’ve heard, one of which moved me so much she’s the reason I’m here to speak to you today, many have one thing in common. They don’t always discuss the choice. I think at times society decides that being brave is fighting and accepting all forms of treatment – whether surgery, chemotherapy, hormone therapy, radiation, alternative therapy and even participating in experimental medication and therapy trials and hell, anything and everything you can possibly do to treat the disease taking up camp in your body. But the fact is – there are many choices not just one approach, one plan. There’s holistic medicine and palliative care. And by the way, one of those choices is to forego all of those options. Is it brave? Yes. Is it hard? Yes. Is pushing back on doctors and family and friends insisting that you choose your course, your treatment thorny at times? Yes. Is asking tough questions and establishing realistic expectations challenging at times? Definitely, but it is so essential. This journey that we are forced to take; it’s an individual and personal one. And each person has a right, no an obligation, to know the truth, search for their reasons, and inevitably make the choice or choices that resonate within the soul of the individual and maintain one’s integrity, self-esteem, and dignity while enabling the hope and reason that lies within them. All choices require bravery – and she who is brave is free. So I encourage you to find a reason, find the right path for you.”