Beyond Cancer.

A while ago I signed up to volunteer as one of Imerman's Angels, a 1-on-1 support program that connects cancer fighters, survivors, and caregivers.  Within days they left a message on my phone welcoming me to the program.  That was months ago. I completely forgot about it until I saw a tweet by founder Jonny Imerman, and instantly tweeted an apology.  His reply stopped me in my tracks. Here it is:

     Jamie SO GLAD you are well! don't worry about a thing :) just keep well

     #1 ! just call the office back & WELCOME on board as an angel! THX:)

He assumed I dropped out because of a recurrence! 

Of course that is what he thought. That is what we always think once we have danced with cancer. The same thing happened when I absentmindedly tweeted and moaned about the kryptonite I had to drink for a CT scan. Friends contacted me in a panic, fearing the worst. 

This reminds me that cancer patients aren’t the only people suffering when we are sick, and we aren’t the only ones who need to move beyond cancer.  As miserable as the sickness can be, I think it is often tougher on those who must watch helplessly while we suffer.  And just as patients need to reclaim or remake our lives without cancer defining us, so do the dear ones who helped us through it.

In the future I will be more careful about mentioning aches and pains, remembering that I am not the only one who thinks, “What if it is cancer?”

And I will call Imerman's Angels today.

Talking About Suicide

It might seem odd that I would talk about suicide on a breast cancer website, but the sad truth is that cancer patients often develop depression during the course of treatment. Even sadder is that too often they suffer in silence; either because they don't understand what is wrong with them, or they are afraid to tell anyone. This can lead to profound hopelessness, and even thoughts of suicide.
If you have someone in your life with cancer who is beyond sad and upset, but seems devastated and despairing, don't be afraid to ask this scary question.

Finding Myself, The Hard Way

A few years ago my husband and I went on a tropical vacation with some good friends. I looked forward
to adventures in food and culture, world class snorkeling, and requisite beach lounging. I dreaded,
however, the big reveal—the unveiling of my post C-section, post-lumpectomy, post-menopausal, lop-
sided, and droopy form. This was in sharp contrast to the other wife who descends from Peter Pan:
she doesn’t age. At 50 her skin was as smooth and unwrinkled as her tummy was tight, and she looked
fabulous in a bikini. Not only did I not wear a bikini, I shrouded myself in "figure-flattering" sarongs.

A few days later I looked through the photos from that trip, and searing shame cut a swath through my
heart, self-hatred boiled in my veins.
Whoa.
I hated myself? Moi? I am a psychotherapist, for crying out loud; self-esteem is my job! Clearly I was
not where I thought I was . . . or who.
I turned to an old friend who had learned a thing or two about self-esteem when she lost her foot in
a car accident. I lamented that even when I was young and Cindy-Crawford-thin I had always felt fat
and uncomfortable in my body. “I know exactly what you mean,” she exclaimed. “I was the same way,
always thin and pretty. I just wish I had been there.”
Whoa.
How much of my life had I squandered wishing and wanting to be something else or other? For what, to
find acceptance in the eyes of people who were likely seeking the same from me? I knew better than
that! I also knew that diet and exercise were not the answer, because I had done plenty of both, and here
I was. I vowed to myself (whoever that was) that come hell or high water I would figure out a way to love
my elusive self.
Little did I know that hell and high water would arrive in the form of a second breast cancer: bilateral
mastectomies with immediate DIEP reconstruction, seven surgeries in all; and that was the easy part.
Flashbacks to childhood abuse erupted weeks after the surgery and suddenly my quest for self-discovery
took a turn down Alice’s rabbit hole. Surgery had given me a girlish figure, a bikini body that was
meaningless to me now as I fought my way through PTSD.
Month after month, one battle after another I seized all of my courage, anger, and intelligence to give—to
myself—good things, the way I gave them to everyone else.
Things like mercy, patience, and genuine regard. Eventually, one new choice at a time, I proved to
myself that external changes never heal twisted beliefs. This hellish journey was a crash course in
choosing to believe . . . myself.