Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  But I really was two people, each fighting hard for the upper hand. One heard what the doctors said and reacted as I have just described. But the other shouted obscenities at the hospital whenever her car passed by. This second person decided to fight, even though the first person was after her every day, sometimes every hour, to give up and give in.

  Physically, my mastectomy didn’t hurt very much. My chest, upper arm and back were numb, but I healed fast, without complications. But my arm hurt from the beginning, sometimes so badly that I couldn’t straighten it for days. Unfortunately it was my right arm, the one I used to strum my guitar. But it really didn’t matter, because I wasn’t happy enough to sing anymore.

  As soon as I left the hospital, I tried to listen to my insides. I wanted my body and mind to tell me how to help them survive. I got some answers, and I tried to follow them even when I was too depressed to move or care. My body said, “drink orange juice,” a curious craving I’d never experienced before. I drank and drank, and it felt right. I put serious thought into what I put into my body. I told my food to make me strong. I told each vitamin, as it slid down my throat, to go to the right places and do the right things, because they were the only cancer pills I had.

  My body said, “Move, Lois, and do it fast!” Thirty minutes after I came home from the hospital I went for a walk. It was hard. I was afraid of falling on my side. I was humped like an old lady. But my legs were strong. I bought a pedometer and walked off miles and miles. When spring came, I walked, ran, walked and ran, until there was too much baby.

  I told my body through exercise that I loved it and wanted it to be healthy. I started yoga again the week I came home. At first I could only move my arm about five inches from my side in any direction, but I stretched and stretched it. I got my three-pound weights out and made my arm muscles and tendons work even though they protested painfully. I got my arm strength back quickly and have full mobility and strength today. Reach to Recovery says, “Walk your fingers slowly up the door.” I say, “Hang on the door, and then do chin-ups if you can.”

  My mind and body said, “Make love,” and they were right. Making love (and other forms of exercise) gave me the only times I was free, the only times I was me again, the only times I didn’t have cancer.

  My mind said, “I need peace. I need some rest every day from the overpowering pressure. Rest me!” I had never meditated, but I went to the library and discovered the forms that worked for me. I practiced. Meditation dropped my tense body out of my waking turmoil into a sweet cradle, deep and dark and refreshingly peaceful. I literally lived for those moments.

  Meditation also provided me with a chance to practice medicine without a license. I told my body to be well. I told my immunological system to protect me. I looked at my brain, my bones, my liver, and my lungs every night. I felt them and told them to be free of cancer. I watched my blood flowing strongly. I told the wound to heal quickly and the area around it to be clean. I told my other breast to behave, because its the only one my husband and I have left. I still tell my body and mind every night, “I reject cancer. I reject cancer.”

  The doctors poke around, look at my X rays, let me out into the world again. I make it into spring, into May.

  We try an induction the last week in May. It goes on for 10 hours, it hurts a lot, and accomplishes nothing. They, the ones not in the bed, want to try again tomorrow. Baby and I want to go home. We go, and I tell myself that three or four more weeks won’t kill me! I am happy because, going full term, I can deliver with the midwives. Perhaps the birth, at least, will be beautiful even if the pregnancy was hell.

  My college roommate had a baby on June 13, and I guess that I will, too. With amniotic fluid beginning to leak, I go to the hospital to a lovely room with plants and a big double bed. My midwife is good in all ways. The contractions are close and getting stronger, and I begin to lose the fear all women have. I am handling this well. I’m going to enjoy it.

  She breaks the bag, and the bed and I are drenched. She says I’m six centimeters, but I watch her face change. I’m pushing the cord out before the baby. I know immediately that he could die—fast. She holds the baby’s head off the cord, pushes him up as I push him down, and I now know what the word agony means. As we race to surgery, I hear them say that the baby’s pulse rate is 60.

  Maybe a C-section was a good idea. They spend another hour looking at my insides. They find nothing but insides, and when my husband tells me, I feel a moment of great relief.

  The baby is an 8-pound, 1/2-ounce, 21-inch baby boy named Nathan Scott. He is very cute, with brown hair, long dark eyelashes—and a large ventricular septal defect, known among the lucky uninitiated as a heart murmur or hole-in-the-heart. It is congenital. It is serious. It will probably need surgery and it could be life threatening. And, worst of all for me, it means constant trips to a hospital I hate. Trips that leave me exhausted and depressed for days. It means letting my baby be cut up, just like me, for his own good.

  Nathan is in danger of congestive heart failure for the first six months of his life. He takes digitalis twice a day. He sweats when he eats. His little bony chest rises and falls much too fast, and his liver and heart are enlarged. He goes into the hospital for a while. I stay with him, and it causes me nearly to break. His original 50 percent chance of closure drops to 25 percent.

  But then, sometime in his seventh month, he improves. (I like to think it was during one of those moments when I was whispering in his little ear, “Nathan, you are going to get well!”)

  The doctors are surprised. The EKGs improve. He gains weight. His breathing slows and the liquid swelling leaves his liver.

  In May 1979 Nate has his first normal EKG, a better event than a first birthday. The muscle has closed around the hole. Nathan pulls himself up on his feet and stands tall, and I begin to believe in his existence.

  When my tummy flattened out, I had a big surprise. I really didn’t have a breast on the right side. Now was the time when most new mothers love to put on their old clothes, or buy new ones, or dream of two-piece bathing suits. My tent clothes had protected me for six months. Now I had to confront my true feelings about my body, another struggle to add to all the rest.

  To describe how I felt as depression is mild. But I kept pushing myself to continue the positive elements in my life. For seven months I didn’t lose my baby fat, but when Nathan began to improve, I experienced a new wave of determination.

  I lost 20 pounds. I continued to meditate and to swallow all my vitamins. Three months after the birth I rejoined my exercise group. Now I didn’t have to walk; I could run. And I run so well I’m planning to enter some races. My exercise program consists of yoga, running and biking. I do them every day. I have to. I believe they are helping me survive.

  My figure is back, with clothes on anyway. I’m even beginning to think I don’t look too grotesque with them off. My C-section scar didn’t do much to help my self-image, but my husband is blind when he looks at my scars, and I am learning to see through his eyes.

  I began to try to learn how to put myself first. What I did worked, and each day of continued good health makes me more confident of “mind over matter.”

  I think of cancer every day, but I also think of how strong my body is, and how good it feels most of the time. I still talk to my insides. I have a feeling of integration of body, mind and, probably, spirit, which I have never before experienced. Cancer introduced me to myself, and I like who I met.

  Lois Becker

  Thoughts for the Year

  The greatest handicap: Fear

  The best day: Today

  Easiest thing to do: Find a fault

  Most useless asset: Pride

  The greatest mistake: Giving up

  Greatest stumbling block: Egotism

  The greatest comfort: Work well done

  Most disagreeable person: The complainer

  Worst bankruptcy: Loss of enthusiasm

  Greatest need: Common sense

>   Meanest feeling: Regret at another’s success

  Best gift: Forgiveness

  The greatest moment: Death

  Greatest knowledge: God

  The greatest thing in the world: Love

  Source Unknown

  My Resolve

  (For Today, Anyway)

  August 19, 1991

  This is what I’ve decided:

  I’m tired of people telling me (and of saying) how lucky I am.

  I don’t feel lucky.

  I know I’ll survive this. I am a strong person and know my glass is half full, but please don’t tell me it’s full—I’ve sipped a few and spilled some.

  I will not be beat and I will fight but I am allowed to say I’m tired. Even people who win get tired.

  I’ve got a lot to do and plan to do as much as I can but first, if I need to cry, I’m going to do it and that’s okay.

  God has seen me through a lot of stuff and I know He’ll give me the strength to pull this off.

  I will not allow people to talk about how I can “just get a wig” and how my hair will grow back. This is a tough one for me, and I will handle it in my own way. Some issues are bigger than others, and to me, this is really a biggie.

  I am going to fight—and win.

  I will work at being stronger, but I won’t like it!

  Life is for living and complaints will be kept to a minimum. We’ve all got something and at least I’ve got people who care.

  I see this thing as a sock in the stomach—it takes your breath away, leaves you sore but you end up walking away.

  I will cherish life more. I am blessed with three wonderful kids and family and friends who love and care and are more than willing to help. I will learn to accept help graciously. I will learn that part of the loving act of holding hands requires that one person’s hand be gently cradled inside another’s. I will learn to willingly cradle my hand in those extended to me, and I will not forget to extend my hand to others.

  Daily, I will pray for strength. I will not be bitter or a martyr.

  I will be strong.

  I will laugh.

  I will cry.

  I will win.

  Paula (Bachleda) Koskey

  My Realizations

  (At This Point in Time)

  May 19, 1992

  When all this started, I somehow thought I would come through it a much wiser and stronger person. I don’t feel as though I have. I simply feel grateful I survived. However, I cannot let such an intrusive event happen without giving it some thought. This is some of the stuff that comes to mind:

  Living through one day can seem much longer than looking back on nine months. And an hour of chemo is the longest measurement of time there is.

  I laugh at the naiveté of my resolve of August—and respect it. The intensity of some feelings/experiences cannot be anticipated, and a lot can be accomplished by simply holding tight.

  Cancer is not like a sock in the stomach. It is a huge battle that affects every part of a person’s being. I was totally ignorant of how overwhelming it can be.

  I tried to make up for losing control over my life by gaining knowledge—it helped.

  Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

  There is such a thing as too thin. (Next I’d like to try too rich.)

  I love my hair! There is something truly wonderful about rubbing my head and not having my hair fall out.

  It is much better to give than to receive and much easier!

  As much as it infuriated me at the time, I’m grateful to my oncologist for his single-minded determination to beat this disease.

  I do have a somewhat strong will. (Why am I the only one surprised by this realization? And what do you mean—stubborn?)

  Laughter, hugs and chocolate are the stuff of life!

  As much as the drugs healed my body, the people who were willing to listen healed my soul.

  I am still glad I never wasted time wondering why me or saying woe is me—stuff happens and is.

  I am terribly in love with a whole bunch of people.

  My kids are simply incredible! This battle was really tough on them, but I have a feeling that even with the scars, they will come out of this better than they were before.

  I am not stoic, strong or saintly.

  I am happy, huggable and hairy!

  It’s okay to complain about stuff as long as somewhere the good gets remembered, too.

  Sometimes winning isn’t what it seems. Sometimes the knowledge gained from the battle is most precious of all. And sometimes the victory is simply a deeper love of those who shared the fight.

  I fought.

  I laughed.

  I cried.

  We won.

  Paula (Bachleda) Koskey

  ©1996 United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

  PEANUTS reprinted by permission of United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

  Dad, Cancer and the Wedding

  An uncanny series of events saved my father’s life.

  About six weeks before my wedding, my mom and I were having a heated discussion about the color of my wedding dress. Mom wanted me to wear white; I wanted to wear off-white.

  We had the discussion the same place we had many others as I grew up—in the kitchen. Mom sat at the table. I sat on the floor, cross-legged, leaning up against the refrigerator.

  As we further debated the matter, my dad entered the kitchen. He had just finished his shower and had put on his robe. From where I sat, I noticed that he had a black spot, about the size of a dime, on the back of his left calf, just underneath the knee.

  I asked Dad how long he had that dark, raised spot. He said he was aware of it, but didn’t know how long it had been there. Mom said he called it his beauty mark.

  I told Dad he needed to have that mark checked out. I told him about Mel, the man who used to co-anchor the evening television news with me in Michigan. His wife had noticed a black spot on the back of his shoulder. That black spot turned out to be melanoma. Skin cancer. Mel’s cancer was caught in time. But, had it not been, it would have spread quickly because the spot was located very close to his lymph nodes.

  Dad promised he would have his spot checked out. Mom and I continued to discuss wedding dresses.

  After visiting with Mom and Dad, I flew back to Boston where I was a consumer reporter for WNAC-TV. One day after work, Dad called to tell me he had a specialist look at the spot and was sure all was okay. In fact, Dad planned to make his scheduled business trip to Boston in a couple of weeks.

  The next call from my parents brought the news that Dad wouldn’t be coming to Boston. That wicked beauty mark was melanoma. Doctors explained to us that there are five stages of melanoma. Dad’s cancer had progressed to level three. He would need surgery to try and combat his disease.

  I flew home for Dad’s surgery. The doctors made every attempt to go in and scoop out the cancer. As we waited for the results to see if they were able to get all the cancer, the minutes seemed like hours, the hours like days, the days like weeks.

  We knew that a level three melanoma had the potential to spread like wildfire. Not a good sign. We counted the days waiting for the results. Five days passed. The results came. His cancer was caught in time!

  Dad had a hard time walking after his surgery, which took place three weeks before my wedding. He kept saying his main goal now was to be able to escort his little girl down the aisle. Dad’s leg just wouldn’t support his weight. At the wedding, Mom and I met Dad halfway down the aisle, where he waited for us in his wheelchair. Mom and I supported Dad as he haltingly walked between us. As we approached the altar, a friend met Dad with his wheelchair. Dad achieved his goal—he walked me down the aisle.

  Since 1981 my father’s body has remained cancer-free. He is checked annually. He is still vital, alive and well.

  I have always remained firmly convinced that Mom and I were meant to have that heated discussion mentioned earlier. It allowed me to be positioned to see Dad’s melanoma, which in turn allowed
the cancer to be arrested. All of this happened because I wanted to get married in an off-white wedding gown, which, by the way, appeared white in all the pictures.

  Linda Blackman

  Surviving Cancer

  It seems like only yesterday my doctor told me I had cancer, and when I asked, “How long do I have?” he didn’t have an answer.

  And it seemed to me that time stood still and the room turned upside down. Life just stopped and I stared at him and I didn’t hear a sound.

  And a thousand years flashed by my eyes as I thought of all I’d miss, of the laughs and smiles of those I loved and my two-year-old daughter’s kiss.

  And I realized right then and there the time that I had wasted, of all the things I’d never done and all the life untasted.

  And I thought of all the silly things that occupied our day, like the stupid fight we had last night over bills we had to pay.

  Twenty years have come and gone and I’m still at the dance. I guess that God just changed his mind and gave me another chance.

  And on that day I took a vow to let go of the past, to live my life and love each day as if it were my last.

  For only God can know these things the day, the hour, the time, but on this day I am alive and all the world is mine.

  Jill Warren

  My Story

  When the call came that October evening in 1986, the voice on the other end of the phone was my obstetrician, who was also my friend.

  One year earlier, she had held my hand through a very difficult pregnancy and the premature birth of my daughter, Kirtley. In fact, it was at my one-year visit just the week before that I had pointed out a small lump in my right breast, which I discovered the previous week as the result of a strange, painful itching. Neither of us was concerned. At 37 I was too young for breast cancer, and everyone knows that cancer has no feeling (two myths debunked!). But she suggested a mammogram. I sensed that it was not something to delay and went the next day.