Chicken Soup for the Breast Cancer Survivor's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  The next time someone tells you that you can’t beat the odds or change your life, look them squarely in the eye and say with a smile: “Chockwut pudding!”

  Mary Olsen Kelly

  Spirit Undaunted!

  Forget mistakes. Forget failures. Forget everything except what you’re going to do now and do it. Today is your lucky day.

  Will Durant

  I identify myself as a swimmer and a painter these days—two things I had put off, both out of my comfort zone—before breast cancer two years ago at age sixty-three. Once the mastectomy, chemo and radiation were over, new thoughts and ideas kept popping up. I wondered, How would swimming feel? How would it feel to put paint on a canvas and see what shows up? The answer is: They feel great! Now I swim fifteen laps three times per week— my goal is twenty—and our living- and dining-room walls are covered with my paintings, and I love looking at them.

  Nothing is the same after breast cancer . . . including my sense of humor. The other day I left my swimsuit prosthesis behind in the dressing room at the pool, and my husband Tony went to the pool to retrieve it. He told the clerk at the desk, “I need to talk to you about something embarrassing.”

  She took him aside and said, “That’s not embarrassing. We even had a person leave a LEG here one time.”

  She asked someone to look for the missing swim boob in the dressing room, resorting to sign language because the woman kept saying: “What? What?” She was unfamiliar with something as complicated as a prosthesis, and English was not her native language. She found it, though, and came out of the dressing room holding it aloft by one corner with an amazed expression on her face.

  I discovered it’s difficult to swim and laugh at the same time.

  Breast is gone, sense of humor intact, spirit undaunted, and priorities turned sideways!

  Sue Caruso

  Women Who Bare Their Breasts

  Ising the body electric.

  Walt Whitman

  I am a member of a secret society of women that has no name, never meets in public and performs a ritual that would get us arrested on any street corner in America: we take our clothes off and stare at each other’s bodies.

  An elderly woman first invited me into this strange-seeming group at my church. In the bathroom one Sunday, she offered to let me see the flat chest that resulted from her double mastectomy. I had just been told that I had to have a mastectomy, and the image of losing a body part was haunting my days and nights. Yet here this kindly woman stood, offering this intimate reassurance. I said yes. She unbuttoned her blouse, took off her lacy bra and showed me the strong, hard lines of her little boy’s chest. I thought she was beautiful, and I thought her generosity was overwhelming.

  During the three weeks that followed, I had two similar offers and found that I was no longer shocked. A nurse at a doctor’s office offered to let me see her rebuilt breasts. She led me into an examining room and showed me how perky silicone implants can make your breasts. Another young woman called me on the phone and invited me—a person connected to her only through the accident of our having the same surgeon—to her one-bedroom apartment by the beach to see what a Tram-flap reconstruction looked like. She was tall, with red ringlet hair, and her breast looked so real that before I even knew what I was doing, I blurted out, “Can I touch it?” She was as unfazed by the request as she was by standing in front of me half naked.

  Influenced in large part by what I saw and touched that day, I chose the same surgery and became part of the secret society that had reached out, welcomed me and educated me. I have the choice to keep my mouth closed and my blouse buttoned, but for what I might gain in privacy or discretion, I would lose in the chance to see women turn from ashen-faced strangers into friends, who feel the hope that only seeing a survivor in the flesh can bring. I’m now four years past my own reconstructive surgery, and I’ve shown countless women my breasts. I invite them into my home; I take them into the bathroom at school; I once showed a woman my breast in the Port-a-Potty at my husband’s company picnic—and she went to get the same surgery I did.

  Not long ago, I was asked to show my breast on a national TV show and for a national woman’s magazine because I wrote a book about breast cancer with a chapter titled “Modesty Is Irrelevant,” and editors suspected I’d be willing. My initial reaction to these invitations was, “No way.” This public grandstanding seemed to be a violation of the rules and the spirit of the secret society of women who bare their breasts. But the red-haired woman who showed me her breast had died from her cancer, and here I could do for millions of women in one fell swoop the same thing she had done for me in one afternoon by the beach. It seemed a fitting tribute. So with cameras humming, I took off my clothes, smiled and said, See, here’s the scar. See, this is fake. See, I am alive!

  I was proud to show off my rebuilt breasts, to show off my scars, to let other women see what it means to be alive and changed. It may be a strange-sounding ritual to people outside the tribe, but to those of us inside, it’s something we hold sacred.

  Jennie Nash

  Things Are Looking Up!

  My radiation treatment itself was relatively short and painless, but lying still and getting set up on the table while technicians sight in the tattoos marking my radiation site was boring. As I lay immobilized on the table, all I could see was a huge machine above me, and my peripheral vision picked up trays of human masks for brain-tumor radiation and ominous-looking wires and equipment. The ceiling had acoustic drop-in panels with lots of holes. I had thoughts of lying there every day for six weeks counting holes in the ceiling while the crossed red laser beams gleamed above as I listened to the groan of the machinery. This was going to be a mental endurance contest.

  The second day of treatment, I noticed a few ceiling tiles resting on the side wall of the room. I asked the assistant, “What is being planned for those?”

  He said, “They’re being replaced.”

  Out of the blue, I asked, “Could I take two tiles home with me and stencil designs on them?” Wow, I thought. I’ll need to think of a design, paint it, and then I’d have something to look at while the machine hums.

  The technician said, “Go ahead.”

  The first panel I brought back was well-received and instantly installed. I chose to paint a cat among geranium pots looking out a window with stars in the sky. The staff got a kick out of it, and just having something to look at took my mind off the machine and its work. At the end of my session, I took another panel home. By the end of my treatments, I had stenciled scenes in every direction, so no matter what therapy anyone was receiving, the patient could focus on some fish on a reef, grapevines and baskets, horses galloping across a field, etc.

  Needless to say, I became the talk of the treatment center during my six weeks. Elderly patients actually waited to see my next installment and thanked me for my efforts. I was able to open conversations with strangers in the waiting room. Other patients told me their fears and concerns, and I was able to alert the staff to handle their questions. I think this simple gesture made a huge difference in the center—it relaxed the patients, made the place friendlier, and warmed the hearts of all of us going through such scary and trying times.

  I ultimately ended up doing a second treatment room in the same building, and word spread to my chemotherapy office, where I painted more. I even ended up traveling to Pittsburgh to work with a film crew, documenting breast-cancer survivors and their stories: Two Chicks, Two Bikes, One Cause.

  In all, the experience lightened my heart and gave me hope for the future. Each day, I had homework, and it was fun to “think of a scene” and surprise the staff and patients in the morning. Through my small gesture, I feel I helped distract and comfort other patients. I’m so glad I found the energy to contribute to others in trying times. It did wonders for me!

  Teri Reath D’Ignazio

  Divine Inspiration

  There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflect
s it.

  Edith Wharton

  I really wanted my last treatment to be special for my radiation team, because they were awesome, and for myself to celebrate thirty-three days . . . thirty-three treatments.

  So I decided to bake biscotti. I stayed up until 1:30 A.M., then got up early to package it, wrap it and write out cards. But something was missing. I wanted to be able to convey to the amazing people at the hospital how much I appreciated them, their professionalism and their caring dedication, and how comforting it was to have them there during my treatments.

  I also wanted my gift to be something memorable, something that would brighten their day and bring smiles to their faces every time they thought of me—and make me smile every time I thought of them. (The irreverent part of me just had to have the last word!)

  All of a sudden, it came to me. It was inspired—it was brilliant—it was too stinking funny! I needed some help, though, and my husband John had already left for work, so I called a friend and asked if she would come over.

  When I arrived at the hospital, I changed and went into the treatment room. For thirty-three days, the technicians had carefully positioned me and lined me up with precision according to the tattoos and marks painted on my chest to make sure they treated the correct areas.

  The technician came over to position me, adjusted my drape, looked at me, looked again, and burst out laughing. Another tech came in, looked, looked again, and did the same.

  I couldn’t help it. It was too perfect. For some reason, Bob Hope popped into my head that morning, and I knew it was divine inspiration. There on my chest, I had my friend write:

  “Thanks for the mammaries. . . .”

  Mary Anne Breen

  5

  HEALING

  It’s only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on Earth—and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up—that we will begin to live each day to the fullest, as if it was the only one we had.

  Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

  The Seasons of Our Lives

  Waiting behind glass panels at the airport for a delayed flight from Honolulu, I reflect on how the world has changed since another time I had waited for my best friend. Before 9/11 and the new airport security, I could wait directly at the gate, a blessing because her e-mail that morning said test results had confirmed that the small lump found in her annual mammogram was indeed cancer.

  Mary Kelly and I had met seventeen years earlier at a three-week-long motivational seminar where we’d been assigned to each other as “Perfect Partners.” Our job was to keep each other on track and accountable in achieving our business goals. Her naturally ebullient nature and enthusiasm made our assignment of checking in by telephone with each other every day a joy. As our friendship and trust deepened, we realized we’d found the best friends we could each imagine.

  In the years that followed, I comforted her when she went through a painful divorce and consoled her as she told me how she yearned for a storybook marriage just like mine. A few years later, she met just the right man, and as she made plans to move to Hawaii to be with him, my own husband lay dying of cancer. She buoyed my spirits then, reminding me of my many blessings and how much life I had ahead.

  And now, again, it is my turn to comfort her. I can think of no way to be of real help. “Let me know if I can do anything to help you . . .” well-wishers say kindly, feeling helpless when there’s not much to be done.

  Rows of people exited the plane that day, and she rushed into my arms. Her husband, Don, stood to the side, looking pale and perplexed, as men often are when there is a problem they can’t analyze and solve. During their visit, the four of us, including my second husband, Ted, who had lost his wife of twenty-two years to another, more virulent form of breast cancer, processed this new information together.

  Ted spoke about his friend, Mo, who told him recently her breast-cancer treatment hadn’t been as bad as she expected, so we called her on the phone, and she and Mary talked a long time. I heard Mary laughing, saying, “Really? You’re kidding!” She later related that Mo told her she’d found chemotherapy to be a beauty treatment, saying that every cell is renewed in the process, and her skin has never looked better. How startled we were at this idea!

  Mary found new resolve in our loving embrace. She told me how, because of the successful Tahitian pearl business she and Don had built together, she always finds inspiration in how the pearl oyster deals with an irritant, turning the experience into something exquisite and unique. She said she was determined to do that with the challenge ahead.

  “Will you come to Hawaii and be my chemo buddy? I plan to choose someone I love to be with me for each of the sessions. Having company will give Don a break and will cheer me on.” Of course I said yes.

  Her sister was her first chemo buddy, and Barb cooked what seemed like one hundred ready-to-eat meals and stored them in the freezer.

  Before Christmas 2000, I arrived, prepared to sleep on a futon on the floor, with their little black cat for company. I learned Jet had his own preferences, liking to be petted as he ate. Mary was a wonder during the second treatment, stoic about any discomfort—reminiscing, confiding, loving my poring over her manuscript and making editing suggestions. I felt deeply in service, like I was making a real contribution, so her invitation to me was a gift.

  Now, a year and a half later, there she is, waving as she rushes into the terminal. Skin glowing (the beauty treatment promise was true!), weight gained from the experience nearly gone, she has triumphed. And like the pearl oyster, she has produced something profoundly meaningful in dealing with breast cancer—her appreciation for life has been enriched, and she is more clearly in touch with what matters and who she is at her core.

  Greeting her at the airport once more, I reflect that in the years ahead, no doubt a time will come when it will be her turn to comfort me again. Through the changing seasons of our lives, only one thing remains the same—our devotion to each other as Perfect Partners.

  Diana von Welenetz Wentworth

  “You’re such a good friend,

  you can complain first!”

  Reprinted with permission of Stephanie Piro ©2004.

  You’ve Got to Play If You Want to Win

  We all have big changes in our lives that are more or less a second chance.

  Harrison Ford

  Since my friend Pat died in 2000, there has not been one day that I have not thought about her. To hear me say that, you’d think that she and I were really good friends . . . best friends. But the truth is that Pat has played a bigger part in my life since she died than she ever did when she was alive.

  We met in 1998 at a very special kind of support group. It was a dance movement therapy class, and only breast-cancer patients and survivors could sign up for it. There were just ten women admitted into the group, and we each had to commit to attend every one of the twelve classes. We were there to support and encourage each other.

  Now, I had participated in other cancer support groups, but this one was different—and not only because of the commitment to the other members of the group. The name “dance movement therapy” said it all: we were not going to just sit around and talk. Fortunately, there was very little dance involved—otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it through the first class! But there was a lot of movement, and that was tough enough.

  That first day, I was very nervous about looking foolish in front of the other women. So, when the music started, I just stood in place—feet firmly rooted in the ground, knees locked, body stiff, eyes shut tight—swaying slightly with the beat.

  When our instructor told us there were drawing materials available if we wanted to express our feelings using that medium, I was horrified. As far as I was concerned, the only thing worse than “dancing” in front of a roomful of strangers was drawing in front of a roomful of strangers. From the expressions on the other women’s faces—and from the way their bodies hadn’t moved either—I knew I wasn’t the only one wond
ering how I could get out of the commitment I’d made.

  But one of the women, Pat, moved with ease right from the very first moment of the very first class. She wasn’t self-conscious at all about using her body to express herself in front of an audience of strangers. In fact, she seemed to be having fun. Not only that, but several times during the class, she walked over to where the art supplies were and used them. I was in awe that anyone could feel that free, that safe, showing who they really were and how they felt in front of a group of strangers. My desire to feel that comfortable kept me coming back every week. That, and the promise I’d made when joining the group.

  By the end of the twelve weeks, with Pat as our role model, we danced, moved, wrote group poetry, drew and played with each other without a second thought. It wasn’t a surprise, considering our comfort level, when, several months later, Pat called all of us to say that she had been diagnosed with metastases to her bones and liver. She asked if we would form a special kind of support group for her, for as long as she needed it.

  Most of us said yes, and Pat’s healing circle (which is how we referred to ourselves) met each month at different homes, with the original members from the dance movement therapy class. By the time Pat died almost two years later, there was a loyal group of five who were there for her every month.

  In the beginning, because this was new for us—and, after all, what had happened to Pat could happen to any of us—we were very serious. Our monthly get-togethers would start with a potluck dinner, and then we would solemnly do light massage and other hands-on work on Pat while chanting or calling her name. It was a somber and dark experience.