Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  After a consultation at the Dana Farber Cancer Institute in Boston and acceptance into its protocol, I began chemotherapy in July of 1993. In November, I entered Dana Farber for the high-dose chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant. Fortunately, I didn’t have too many serious side effects from the transplant and I came home on Thanksgiving. I had set a goal for myself to be home with my family for my favorite holiday of the year. After recovery, I had a modified radical mastectomy early in January of 1994. At that time the pathology on my breast and lymph nodes came back with no residual cancer cells. This was the best news we could have hoped for. I then had six weeks of radiation. In April, I finished the protocol and in June went back to work after being on sick leave for a year.

  Cancer has changed me in many ways. My whole outlook on life is so much clearer now. I didn’t realize how much I took health and life for granted until I thought mine was in jeopardy. Now every day is a gift and I am grateful that I have this time. When you have had cancer, your future is so uncertain. I faced the fact that I might die before I reach old age; therefore, I need to make the most of the time I have now. I appreciate my life so much more now that I have had cancer.

  I also realize how strong I am, even though I never thought of myself that way. So many people tell me how strong and courageous I have been through all this and now, as I look back on it, I realize I did what I had to do to survive, as would most people. I didn’t think of it as courage that made me do what I had to do, I thought of it as survival. But now that I can look back and reflect, I realize that it did take strength and courage to face cancer the way in which I did—courage and strength that I didn’t know I had.

  One of the most important aspects of my life that helped me conquer breast cancer is a loving and supportive family. Without them, I am not sure what my outcome would have been. I had so much to live for and was not ready to leave them yet, and I was not ready for them to go through life without me. I wanted to be a part of their lives for many years to come. Knowing that they were all there for me, supporting me, helped me to get through all the treatments and all the hard times when I wanted to give up. They were my source of strength and support, my motivation and inspiration.

  One day, if any of them are faced with the same diagnosis, they will do the same. I hope that I set an example for them and that I have inspired them. I also hope that they gained knowledge and strength from my experience. I strive to help other people who have to go through this same procedure, to give them information and educate them about this treatment. It helps to know that someone else may benefit from my experience. My mother taught me that everything happens for a reason. She feels that I was given cancer so that I could help someone else. Today, that is my mission, to help others get through this and to look at me and think, If she got through breast cancer and survived, then I can, too.

  Cancer is such a dreaded disease and it has robbed us all of so many wonderful people. I have lost a grandfather, two aunts and a cousin—all to cancer. Even though it was terrible to lose them, it also gave me strength. I saw what they all went through and it made me stronger. I was determined not to go through what they had gone through.

  The day before I went to Dana Farber for the high-dose chemotherapy and the bone marrow transplant, I went to the cemetery to visit my cousin, who was just four years older than I when she died just a few weeks earlier. I knelt at her grave and vowed to her that I would go to Dana Farber and get through this transplant for her as well as for me. I know that if she could have gone through what I was about to, she would have done it willingly if it meant she would live. When she died, people worried about me, but I told them all that I was going to gain strength from her death because she was an inspiration to me when I was diagnosed.

  While I would never want to go through a cancer diagnosis again, it does not seem so frightening to me now. I have learned that you can battle cancer and win. Although cancer is terrible, for me it has also been a blessing. I am stronger and better now. I have so much self-confidence and faith in myself now. I now know that I can do anything. I can face anything that is thrown at me. I just have to face it head on and take it one day at a time.

  It has been almost 18 months since I had my last radiation treatment and I feel great. Greater now than I have in a few years. At times I feel so great, I am almost euphoric, like I am walking on air. It is wonderful to be healthy again. When I was diagnosed, I felt like most people who are diagnosed with cancer. I felt like I had just been handed a death sentence. Cancer meant death, but now I know differently. You can survive breast cancer.

  Kimberly A. Stoliker

  Cancer and Career Choices

  Discovering the ways in which you are exceptional, the particular path you are meant to follow, is your business on this earth, whether you are afflicted or not. It’s just that the search takes on a special urgency when you realize that you are mortal.

  Bernie S. Siegel, M.D.

  At the tender age of 27, I had been married for six years, enjoyed a flourishing career in the food service industry, was about to buy my first home and was the delighted daddy of two beautiful and remarkable children—a boy and a girl.

  At age 43, I was two years divorced, owned a prosperous small business, was in the process of purchasing a new domicile, had found love again and was on the verge of remarriage, thus becoming the proud papa of two more adorable children.

  Fifteen years later, the children are all grown up and still wonderful, but all else is gone—marriages, homes, businesses. However, I am now a successful real estate salesman, secure in the knowledge that given time I will recoup all.

  Now let me sort out my list of things to do: continue making loads of money, find Ms. Right, buy a new home, raise a new family and I’m complete, right? Not! I will always believe that at this point, in my thinking, God threw up his hands. “Enough already! What do I have to do? Strike my child with lightning? Wait, I’ve got it—a life-threatening illness will point him in the correct direction. Either that or it will kill him. What to do, what to use? Cancer, that’s it, cancer. But what kind? Not just life– threatening, also a threat to his manhood; he’ll heed that. That’s it, prostate cancer. I am all-knowing.”

  I can come up with no other answer than that Divine Providence generated my urge to get a complete physical, and my additional need for reassurance that I wasn’t losing my manliness—okay, okay, potency—led me to discover I had a diseased prostate. Further tests indicated the cancerous condition was operable, but if I did not take decisive action and allowed the cancer to spread, I would be counting the months I had to live and those days would be filled with more hospital stays plus painful, debilitating treatments. My doctors explained all the options—at least the ones medical science had to offer— but the best one seemed to be complete removal of the offending organ. I would not be the natural father to any more children, since it is the prostate gland that produces semen, which carries the sperm. I could live with that— literally. Additionally, any of the curative options could possibly render me incontinent, even impotent. Just what I needed to hear, but I could live with that, too.

  At this point, I must mention that we all have several special gifts or talents—there is also usually one outstanding one. I had already acknowledged and expressed my entrepreneurial, social and family skills. I’d been there, done that—but my most special gift, the uninhibited expression of my fertile imagination through creative writing and film mediums, was completely neglected. I sensed God’s impatience, so as they wheeled me into the operating theater, I made a pact with my Maker. I would do my part to completely actualize the blessings of my God-given gifts, talents and abilities if He would just allow me to come out of this alive. I vowed I would no longer waste time doing over again what I had already shown I could do well; I would no longer resist the pursuit and development of my artistic talents since, obviously, that is what I was put here to share.

  In keeping with my deal, I’m writing this brief account to
tell you the cancer had not spread, the operation successfully removed the disease from my body, and my most recent tests show I am still cancer-free. The threat of that terminal illness has compelled me to do what I would not do before—create to the best of my ability, driving me toward the completion of my first novel and onward to a film of my own written work.

  At the moment, I have a regular job that I refer to as “my day job.” It keeps food on the table, a roof over my head and even affords me a few luxuries, such as the best equipment to help produce my chosen work and the time to do the same. I have never been happier. The thrill and the ecstasy that fill my life come from knowing that I am honoring my true essence and seizing this second chance to fulfill my life’s destiny—triumphantly expressing, in writing, my uninhibited passion. Matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing right now.

  Robert H. Doss

  It Is the Best of Times

  On April 10, 1995, my 36-year-old brother, Jonathan, heretofore in good health, had a seizure while eating lunch at work. Fortuitously, the office manager heard a thump, went to my brother’s office, and found him collapsed on the floor. She immediately called 911. I babysat my two young nieces, Heather and Elizabeth, as my mother and Jonathan’s wife, Cindy, rushed to the hospital. We were told that he was conscious, and that tests would be performed to determine the cause of the seizure.

  The first phone call confirmed that the usual tests had turned up negative, but that there was a gray area on the brain scan that they wanted to double-check. “Brain tumor,” I thought, as I watched his two young children play. When Cindy called again, she confirmed the unthinkable.

  I told Heather that her daddy had to stay in the hospital overnight. She started to cry. I assured her that he would be okay. What else could I say? He had to be okay. He would be okay.

  We packed up the girls and hurried them over to our house for the night. Brain tumor? It was hard to comprehend. Sitting in our kitchen, eating noodle soup, the oldest began crying again. I picked her up and she clung to me, her tears subsiding somewhat. The youngest, still at that age of sunny self-centeredness, didn’t comprehend the enormity of the situation. Later, we ate popcorn and watched The Lion King. The oldest said she would feel better if I slept in the same room with her that night.

  One day the week before his collapse, Jonathan had awakened feeling somewhat sick, disoriented and sore. He and Cindy attributed the symptoms to dehydration, and the back pain to carrying his oldest child on his shoulders at the zoo. “Brain tumor” is not something that comes to mind. How could he have known that he had a seizure in his sleep the night before? Within a few days, he had felt better.

  The information we had on his condition so far was positive for a brain tumor. It was huge. The size of a large egg or a small orange, they said. The size and shape of it indicated that it was benign, non-cancerous. It must have been, as it grew inside my scientist brother’s brain for an estimated two to three years with no significant symptoms.

  Surgery was scheduled for Thursday, with a surgeon held in high esteem. I visited my brother on Wednesday to bring presents and flowers and wishes for his recovery from myself and our sister, who was living in another state. He looked awful and seemed disoriented. He said that the tumor was attached to a membrane adjacent to the brain. At least it wasn’t attached to the brain itself, I thought.

  On Thursday, our mom and dad, Cindy and I went to the hospital early to wish Jonathan well before he was prepared for surgery. It would take between two and five hours, they said. Two hours if the tumor was soft and could be more easily removed. Five hours if the tumor removed hours. removed. The skull hadfour-inch-by-four-inch to the brain. A covered the operation, he dis–slowly. Once carefully and was hard and had to be By Saturday, he was ready to leave the hospital. On “Good news—those lumps were just coal.”

  Afterward, able to see him. Jonathan looked someone who just had brain surgery. was swathed in bandages, not even removed.

  By Saturday, he was ready to leave the hospital. On “Good news-those lumps were just coal.” Easter Sunday, I went to his house for dinner. The house

  “Good news-those lumps were just coal.”

  Drawing by Shanahan; ©1996 The New Yorker Magazine, Inc.

  2

  ON COURAGE

  AND

  DETERMINATION

  If I were asked to give what I consider the single most useful bit of advice for all humanity it would be this: Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life and when it comes, hold your head high, look it squarely in the eye and say, “I will be bigger than you.You cannot defeat me.”

  Ann Landers

  Up the Down Slope

  Come to the edge.

  No, we will fall.

  Come to the edge.

  No, we will fall.

  They came to the edge.

  He pushed them, and they flew.

  Guillaume Appolinaire

  If you could see me now—a confident 18-year-old cruising the University of Colorado campus in Boulder—you’d never believe I’m the same withdrawn, quiet girl I was five years ago. Back then, I was about as shy as a teenager could be. Maybe because I wore thick glasses and was self-conscious, or because my parents had recently divorced—who knows? It got so bad that when I tried out for the track team, I quit before tryouts were over, just so no one would laugh at me. Instead, I’d come home after classes and make a beeline for the TV. I knew the reruns of Gilligan’s Island like the back of my hand.

  But then, during the spring of my eighth-grade year, my left knee started to ache. I thought I’d twisted it or something, so I didn’t pay much attention to it. But the pain got worse. At a friend’s slumber party I was so uncomfortable I ended up sitting in a reclining chair all night. So my father took me to our family pediatrician, who took an X ray and then called my dad into his office.

  I was in the other room, but I heard the doctor talking through the wall. “We don’t know yet,” he said. “It could be an athletic injury...or some sort of tumor.”

  My Aunt Roselle had once had a tumor, but an operation had fixed that. So I figured I’d just have some quick surgery and then I’d be fine, too.

  The day my mother and I went to the hospital for more X rays, Mom’s best friend, Peggy Hanson, came along with us. She’s known me since I was a baby and she’s sort of like an aunt to me. A nurse put the X ray results on a screen. “See here?” she asked, pointing to a white area on the leg. “That’s what’s making your knee hurt.”

  Soon a man came in and introduced himself as Dr. Chang. He poked around my knee a little, then looked at my chart. Finally he spoke, slowly and gently.

  “Adrienne,” he said, “Your leg’s been hurting because you have a tumor. If this tumor were to spread to the rest of your body, it could be very dangerous; you could even die. Fortunately I think we’ve caught it in time to keep it from spreading. But you’ll probably have to undergo chemotherapy, and we may have to amputate your leg. I’ll know better after we do some more tests.”

  My mom sucked in her breath and started to cry. Peggy, though, stayed cool and composed, and so did I. I still kept hearing the words maybe and possibly, which, to me, meant “probably not.” And I didn’t realize then what an amputation actually involved.

  After a minute or two Dr. Chang left us, and that’s when Peggy stepped in for my mom, who was still crying. “Adrienne,” she said, “could you handle an amputation?”

  “Sure,” I said, “I don’t see why not.”

  “You have a family and a lot of friends who love you,” Peggy said. “But most of all, you have the good Lord. We’ll all be right here to help you through this.” Peggy was strong. I admired her strength and drew from it.

  The next day I went for a bone scan, and the day after that, an arteriogram (they injected dye into my artery to see where the tumor was). I had to lie flat for 24 hours, and when I finally was allowed to get up, I had to go into the operating room for a biopsy. That was not the best
day of my life.

  The doctors decided that an amputation was necessary. First, though, I’d have a month of chemotherapy. Little by little, with each visit to the hospital I learned more about that tumor. I found out that most people don’t die from my disease since amputation and chemotherapy usually take care of it, and that if you’re in remission for five years, you’re probably free of it forever. I also found out that only three people in a million get it.

  Meanwhile, I was missing a lot of school, and one night my friend Janice called me. “Everybody’s talking about you,” she said. “Some of the kids say you’re bald and you’re having both legs amputated. Someone even said you had only a few weeks to live .”

  Janice had no idea how upsetting her phone call was. I was the shy one, the girl who hated when people looked at her or talked about her. I remembered how Peggy said I was lucky to have friends and God to help me through this; well, my friends had “helped” by making me into the latest gossip. As for God’s role, I was thoroughly confused. I had just started chemotherapy, which made me tired and sick, and in less than a month my leg would be amputated. Was I being punished for something?

  Then one night something happened that completely changed the way I looked at the whole thing—and changed everything else about my life as well. It was around 2:00 A.M., and I was lying on the living room couch. I slept there because there was less space to move around in and agitate my leg. The room was dark and quiet, and I was all alone.

  I was thinking again about how only three people in a million get this type of bone cancer, three in a million. And it ran through my mind that there were more than three quarters of a million people living in the Denver metropolitan area. That meant that only about five of them would ever have what I had. The thought sort of stunned me. All of a sudden those figures made me feel, well— special. Suppose God isn‘t punishing me at all? I said to myself. Suppose he has deliberately chosen me? Let me tell you, that theory got my mind racing. I wasn’t sure why I might have been chosen or how it might be a good thing, but I started looking at the cancer in my leg differently. I knew I could deal with it. When I woke up the next day, I felt a new sense of courage. I was ready to face it.