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Tied to a Tree

There's a Native American legend about the first man to see the Grand Canyon.

He peered over the cliffs; then, he tied himself to a tree.

Fear of the unknown paralyzed this brave.  Or, maybe he had a fear of heights.

Either way, fear kept him from an adventure.  The adventure would've included challenges and obstacles.   There was no guarantee he would live through the adventure.

But instead of being known as the first warrior to conquer the canyon, he became known as the man who tied himself to a tree.   

September 18th, 2005 represented my one-year anniversary of my second cancer surgery, the day I became a two-time survivor. 

Don't tie yourself to a tree.

Take the first step, down, to explore the glory of the canyon.

There's more to cancer than surviving.  That more is what makes it a gift.

Photos courtesy of askart.com, Carl Oscar Borg's Grand Canyon and
Susan B. Komen Foundation Market Place.

 

Pink Scarves

It's a 19-hour drive from Cut Bank, Montana to Rochester, Minnesota.

Rochester is the home of the Mayo Clinic, where my cousin Tami has been treated for her breast cancer since her diagnosis in 2000.

During treatments this week, she died.  She was 41.  Her father and two sons, age 7 and 11, drove from Cut Bank and got to see her an hour before she died.

It hurts to imagine what the ride to Rochester was like; it hurts even more to imagine the ride home.

Some of her clients had begun making and selling pink scarves for her; the money from sales helped compensate for the expenses of travel and treatment.  Every woman in my family has one of these pink scarves. 

In many ways I was dreading writing this series.  But it's has been a tremendous gift -- looking back into the dark valleys I've crossed from the summit of a mountain.

But this week's news about Tami's death was another cruel reminder that not everyone survives.  Many thousands are in the valley, still battling this thing called cancer.

"Even though I walk  through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,  for you are with me;  your rod and your staff,  they comfort me."  - Psalms 23.4

Photos courtesy of hermes.com and  Susan B. Komen Foundation Market Place.

Desperate for a Cure

Desperate Housewives stars James Denton and Ricardo Antonio Chavira are co-survivors of Breast Cancer.  Both actors lost their mothers to the disease. 

This year, with Lee Jeans, their goal is to raise $ 10 million for the Susan B. Komen Foundation, on Lee Jeans National Denim Day, Friday, October 7th, 2005.

Now in its tenth year, the program has raised over $ 52 million in the fight against breast cancer.  Last year, over $ 8.5 million was raised.   The program is simple - wear denim and make a
$ 5 donation.  And in 2004, over 27,500 companies participated.

Today (Friday, September 23, 2005) is the last day to register and receive posters and materials on how you or your company can participate. 

Through their participation, Denton and Chavira hope to "increase recognition of the important role men play as co-survivors."

If you'd like more information about this program, go to Lee National Denim Day at www.denimday.com

Over the next few days, you'll hear from some of my co-survivors ... my husband, my father and mother. 

Photo courtesy of Susan B. Komen Foundation Market Place.

What You Fear Most

The darkest day of my journey with breast cancer was the day I received a phone call from the surgeon a week after the first surgery, the lumpectomy.

They'd received the biopsies from the surgery and did not have "clean margins."  In real terms that means there was more cancer, there would be another surgery, in a week, to remove more cancerous tissue.

Thanks to the early detection, there was a high probability for success.  I just wasn't sure if the cancer had spread, or if a second surgery would remove all of the cancerous cells.  No one was sure.

The early detection had provided a high level of confidence that I would survive.  I was positive; the doctors were positive.  This unexpected news threw me into a different place, a darker place.

The Cancer Therapy and Research Center provides counseling with a nutritionist, as part of your treatment.  I had had several meetings with the nutritionist; we'd become friends.

The day after the phone call, I went to see her for our scheduled meeting.  She could tell something was wrong by the look on my face.  When I told her the news, she asked me, "What are you afraid of?"

"Well Barbara, I might die."  I responded.

That thought had never crossed my mind before the phone call from the surgeon.  Then, I looked back on my life, realized I was no longer in control and started the bargaining process with God.  Just as there are phases to grief, there are phases to a diagnosis ... denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

Maybe denial had provided me with the optimism.  Anger ... no, not really.  So many people are diagnosed I had become just another statistic (how's that for more denial?).

She asked, "And, what would happen then?"

"I'd go to heaven."

Barbara stared at me and waited for what I'd said to sink in -- not to her -- to me.

I realized in that moment, that I had nothing to fear, but fear itself.

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love,
and of a sound mind."         - 2 Timothy 1:7

Photo courtesy of Susan B. Komen Foundation Market Place 

Support Group

I attended very few cancer support groups.  I just don't find comfort in groups ... never have, never will.  Alone is where I work these things out.  But in one support group, I heard an answer to a question that was so truthful, so revealing, that I'll never forget it.

One woman, a pretty brunette in her early forties, who was feeling extremely self-conscious from the recent weight gain after taking the cancer follow-up drug Tamoxifen, began to speak.

We were all asked what we'd learned so far in our battle.

She started slowly, her eyes swelling with tears.  "I've learned that ... I have to want to live.  You see, I lost my son about a year ago.  And, I've learned that I had to first decide ... that I wanted to live."

Her frankness was disarming.  We all secretly admitted that we'd probably thought the same thing.

Did I want to fight? 

Yes, both times I've been diagnosed with cancer, I was ready to fight.  I felt gratitude for the early diagnoses and optimism in the success of the surgeries.  More importantly, I felt I wasn't done.  I didn't want to die.  So, that means I had to fight.  With every thought, every breath, every urge.

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."
                                                                                                                - Philippians 4:8

For my Aunt Louise it was different.  She was ready to go and I celebrated her new journey with her.  Her San Antonio sisters, family and friends celebrated her life with a big party, shortly after her diagnosis.  She died shortly after the party. 

I did get to talk to her several times before she joined the saints.  We were happy that we'd celebrated her life, and mine, many times over the past decade since we'd met and become friends.  It's not always saying good bye before someone's death that's important, sometimes what's important is saying "Hello!" and "I love you!" and "Where's my Shiner?" whenever you can when you're alive.

For Aunt Louise, celebrating what was true, noble, right, admirable and praiseworthy, was celebrating her new chapters of dancing and singing, after over 80 years on earth of doing the same.

I miss her like crazy.  I still drive by her house and just pretend she's not home and I'll see her next time.  In some ways, it's true. 

Photo courtesy of Susan B. Komen Foundation Market Place.      

Conversations with God

When you're diagnosed with Cancer, you might find yourself talking to God more than usual.

For one thing, you might have more time on your hands than you used to, when you were out doing something so important.  Now, you're in bed, recovering from surgeries, and have a bit more time on your hands.

I remember my first conversation with God about breast cancer.

I'm one of those women who schedules mammograms at 7:30 am so they won't interfere with my career.  But when you get a call on your cell phone, after your mammogram, on your way to work, and they tell you to come back immediately, suddenly you have all the time in the world to dedicate to another visit to the Radiology Center.

That was my first, humble conversation with God.  "So, you're in control, I can't do this without you." 

During the core biopsy a few days later, God held me through that terrible procedure.  My husband was with me that day, too. 

When the first surgery (the lumpectomy in September of 2000) wasn't as successful as we'd hoped, I became more concerned.  I imagined standing before God, like the servant with the talents as he asked me what I'd done with mine.

"Well, Lord, I served you for two weeks on the mission field in Argentina.  And, it helped me understand that I could share your love at home, too."

"So have you?" he boomed.

"Well ... I've tried to share you with my actions at home and in my job, by providing my family and clients with the same honesty and service your son has taught.  But, I've failed many times.  And, I don't know if they know you."

Without going any further in this conversation, I realized through many different messengers over the following months that my life would change.  It wasn't about making a name, or making money ... my life would make a difference. 

That's one of the reasons I resigned from the broadcast company for which I'd worked and became a Wizard of Ads partner.  I wrote the book about the companies a century ago who blended art, culture, community and commerce, in an even more magical way than Disney today.  (Hum, companies that had made a difference.)  Then, three weeks after the book's recording session I was diagnosed again with cancer.

Years before I remember being at the Radiology Center for a mammogram before my second cancer diagnosis, when the nurse who led me into a dressing room shared that she was also a survivor ... of breast cancer and in the lining of her uterus ... I remember responding as carefully as I could.  I was already numb with the thought of what it must have been like, to go through this twice.  I didn't want to think about it too much; it would hurt.

But there I was, with the same scenario ... and it hurt just as much as I thought it would.

Photo courtesy of Susan B. Komen Foundation Market Place.

Your City on the Hill

"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden."
- Matthew 5:14

We live in a small town outside San Antonio, near a beautiful old Catholic church.  One of the defining features of this church up high on a hill, is the historic niche just left of the entrance.  It was constructed in the artistry of stacked rock, and is about 20 feet wide and 10 feet deep.  Of course, deep inside the domed structure is an altar and statues of Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

After my surgery in September of 2000, I'd received over 100 cards of encouragement ... these friends were my city on the hill.

On a fall night before Halloween, we secretly filled the niche -- altar and floor -- with over 100 candles -- the kind in tall, clear glass containers.  They cast a golden glow from the niche for over a week.  We drove by every night.  I took a picture and sent a Christmas card to all my friends and family, thanking them for their love, encouragement and support.

It was a thank you to God, too.   

Photo courtesy of Susan B. Komen Foundation Market Place.

Survival Secrets - Part I

"This year in the United States, 211,240 women and 1,690 men will be diagnosed with breast cancer and 40,410 women and 460 men will die from the disease." -- Susan B. Komen Foundation Website

I wish everyone would survive, but they don't. 

I don't know why I've survived this disease twice.  It doesn't make me special.  I'm proud that I have; but I don't think I had much to do with it.

Survival rates may be increased with early detection, a great medical team, a positive attitude, faith and the love, support and prayers from many friends and family. 

But those things don't always work.

I lost my fiance in a motorcycle accident in 1994.  That's why I know so much about grief and am able to compare the acceptance phases of a diagnosis with the acceptance phases of a death (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance).

The book I found most helpful as I recovered from Fred's death was A Grief Observed, by C.S. Lewis.  It was so painful to read I could only read a few pages each night.  But, the wildest blackest thoughts of grief are common to everyone.  Lewis' book helped me understand that.     

Maybe one of the reasons I survived, was to write this series.  I don't know.

I do know this, because people we love die, it doesn't mean God doesn't love us.  And this -- because people we love die, it doesn't mean God doesn't love them.

His son died on the cross.  God allowed this death, as payment for our sins, because He loved us.  Jesus died because he loves us. 

"What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us?"
                                                          - Romans 8:31   

 

Photo courtesy of Susn B. Komen Foundation Market Place

The Must-Read Book for Cancer Conquerors

Greg Anderson's book, Journeys of the Cancer Conqueror, was given to me after my breast cancer diagnosis in September of 2000, by a dear friend, who also happened to be a colon cancer survivor.

If you read only one thing from this book, read this,

" ... Just as I was beginning the chemotherapy sessions, I read about the psychological component of side effects.  A research study tracked a group of people who were given sterile water injections instead of chemotherapy and a third of them lost their hair anyway."

I've given this book as a gift to many of my friends who've been diagnosed in the past five years.  It was a great gift to me.

Like so many patients, the acceptance of the diagnosis comes at a strange time.  I was diagnosed, tests where run and I was in surgery within 7-10 days after hearing I had cancer.  So, there I was, recovering from the first surgery, realizing the magnitude of what I'd just endured.

That's when the book arrived.  It helped me understand that my body, mind and spirit were in control of my recovery.  Cancer does not mean death; it can mean new life.  For a driven personality, what else are you going to do with two weeks in bed to look forward to?  It was a great time to look forward to the future.

Because I had just finished a study of Isaiah 61, I read it everyday.  It gave me hope.

Photo courtesy of Susan B. Komen Foundation Market Place.

Lands' End Down Vests

There it was every day for six weeks.  The same Lands' End Christmas catalog,  dog-eared and hopelessly alone in the waiting room of the Cancer Therapy and Research Center Radiation Lab.  I still picked it up every morning between 8:15 - 8:30 am as I waited for my daily treatment.

I really wanted that red down vest.  It would match the color of my skin underneath it.  It would protect me from cancer and more surgeries.  I never bought it, but I really wanted it.

I looked through the catalog for a special protective hat for the young man with the shaved, stitched head, undergoing brain radiation.  What about a pair of special magic boots for the woman in the wheelchair who was there?  Where can I buy magic vests and caps and boots to protect me, and them?

First the tattoos ... permanent marks for the specialists to follow to make sure the same area was treated each day.  After a couple of weeks my skin hurt from the burns.  The radiation had followed two surgeries, (the lumpectomy, then the partial mastectomy, a week later).  The radiation lasted six weeks, until January 7, 2001.

A friend from the CTRC Nutrition department had shared a secret with me.  Her mother had gone through radiation therapy.  She told me that her mom pretended that the radiation beam was a holy beam from St. Michael, the archangel, and that each treatment represented his holy sword destroying the bad cells in her body. 

So, when I was alone in the room on the steel table, I envisioned the same.  St. Michael would be a blessing to me each morning ... with his holy light saber. 

I'd have the radiation treatment, a muffin at Starbucks, since the radiation made me nauseous, then go to work every day.  Just like nothing had happened.

But something did happen; I would never be the same.

And to this day, when I see a Lands' End catalog, or even hear "Lands' End," I think of my red down vest.

Note to self:  Take some magazines down to the CTRC waiting rooms.

Photos courtesy of Land's End and the  Susan B. Komen Foundation Market Place.