Hi, my name is Jennifer, cancer survivor and writer of the Talk Cancerversary blog. I was diagnosed with Stage III b breast cancer in August, 2006. Did I consider celebrating then? No way. A survivor, are you kidding? I had just turned 41, was going through a very messy divorce, trying to find a job, and raising my three and four year old sons. It’s hard to think of “that day” as a time of celebration, and I’m all about celebrating. St. Patty’s day: Kiss me, I’m Irish! Cinco De Mayo: Viva la Margaritas! Ground Hog Day: Come on out and party Punxatawny Phil! Celebrate the day I was diagnosed with cancer, not so much. Believe me, the idea of celebrating a “Cancerversary” came much later! Much hair loss later, many surgeries later, and many, many rounds of chemo later. So now I consider my Cancerversary as more of a celebration of survivorship, a pat on the back for what I’ve surmounted and how far I’ve come. Plus, they were out of the “I survived cancer, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt!” shirt at the hospital gift shop.
I think most of us remember our diagnosis as a big blur of crazy emotions. It was hard to imagine back then that I would ever celebrate anything again. I remember sitting in the waiting room, waiting. The nurse kept calling in patients, obviously avoiding me. Once, she inadvertently made eye contact with me. Her eyes then darted around the room like a feral animal, anxiously looking for an escape. Not a good sign. She finally brought me back to an exam room, making uncomfortable small talk with a nervous smile, where I waited again. I could hear the doctor seeing patient after patient in other exam rooms, doors opening and closing up and down the hallway, his muffled voice sounding pleasant and innocuous. No bad news being given there. I knew that stupid doctor was avoiding me, putting off telling me that I had cancer. No one likes to give bad news, but I still think he was stupid. And as I waited, alone, in that exam room, my anger towards that stupid doctor grew, towards all the stupid doctors in the last four months that had told me there was nothing wrong with me. Just 40 year old, lumpy, hormonal breast-itis, they told me. (I took some liberty with their verbiage.) I had a mammogram just eight months ago, no cancer then. Stupid doctors. Now this guy is making me wait and wait to tell me I have cancer. I had a right to be angry!
My angry smugness was short lived. When that stupid doctor finally summoned up the courage to come in to the exam room, look me in the eye, and tell me, ” You have breast cancer,” all I did was cry. My,” I told you something was wrong!” speech came out as sobs. I cried all through his explanation of how he was going to cut out a hunk of my breast, (as if, stupid doctor.) I cried while he told me about the “medicine” that might make me feel a little sick and make my hair fall out. (Seriously? Did he think I was four?) And I cried while he told me about the permanent “suntan” (Yes, he did say “suntan.”) I could get from the radiation they were going to blast me with.
I cried while the nurse walked me to the x-ray room, and while the nice, but very uncomfortable looking x-ray tech asked me oh so gently to hold still, while he took pictures of my lungs. I cried while the lab tech tried to draw blood from my shaking arm. At least she gave me a hug. I made a huge scene all over that place that day, long blond hair bobbing as my chest heaved from the sobs. I was a “hot mess” in every sense of the term, and I didn’t care who saw me. I had been hit by the cancer train, and was about to be dragged down the railroad tracks of treatment, kicking and screaming.
So, let’s just say, “survivor” grew on me. It was more of an acquired taste. I tasted it again and again; eight rounds of chemo, six weeks of daily radiation treatments, one year of Herceptin infusions, a port, mastectomy, three reconstructive surgeries, (so far), physical therapy, and endless, countless scans, injections, pills and tests. Through all of this I found I have acquired a taste for survivorship. It suites me quite well, actually. So I celebrate today, everyday, and proudly celebrate my Cancerversary! Three years, whoo hoo! How about you?
