CANCER AND BEYOND. A PERSONAL JOURNEY . PART I
- Terry Dance-Bennink
- 6 days ago
- 6 min read
Terry Dance-Bennink writes about her journey through breast cancer and an acute case of diverticulitis. She reflects on her spiritual and physical challenges and practices that helped her face death and find new meaning in life. A former Vice-President Academic of an Ontario college, Terry moved to Victoria with her husband five years ago and enjoys writing and spiritual companionship.
April 1, 2010
It’s April Fool’s day. The day before Good Friday. My mammogram is booked for 11 a.m. at Victoria General Hospital, but I’m not worried. My breasts have never given me trouble – uterus yes, but not breasts.
The waiting room is crowded, but finally, a technician calls my name. As each breast is flattened like a pancake, I feel the pressure, but it’s uncomfortable more than painful and the woman is cheerful. Back to the waiting room I go, expecting the usual “you’re fine” and a quick exit. An hour crawls by as I skim a tattered Reader’s Digest. The technician calls me back in and re-examines my left breast. I feel the first twinge of anxiety. I return to the Reader’s Digest with blank eyes.
“You need an ultrasound, dear,” she announces matter-of-factly to the entire waiting room but looking straight at me.
My stomach seizes. I enter the ultrasound room and a gentle woman rubs gel on my breast and moves the sensor around as she stares at the computer screen. She tells me it’s been a rough day. They’ve had a whole bunch of women diagnosed with suspicious lumps and she’s tired. The seconds tick by in a very silent room.
“I need to call the radiologist,” she says quietly. “I just want him to check something.”
My stomach tightens again. The radiologist enters the room, looks at the screen and then feels my breast.
“I see an irregular shape on the screen,” he says. “We need to do a biopsy to determine what it is. I can do it now or you can come back next week.”
“Now, please. Let’s get it over with,” I say without hesitation. The doctor inserts a needle to freeze part of my left breast and then uses a bigger needle to extract the tissue sample. This hurts but everything is happening so fast, I’m almost numb. I practise my deep breathing and it’s over in three minutes.
“What do you think it is?” I ask the doctor.
“Do you really want to know?” he asks me. “We prefer to wait until the pathology report comes back in a week, but if you want my opinion now, I can give it to you.”
“Yes, please,” I whisper feeling very cold on that hard examining table.
“It’s cancer, I’m quite certain,” he declares. I stare at him in total shock, speechless.
“You should see your G.P. as soon as you can and he’ll explain the next steps. You’ll probably need an MRI before surgery. ” And with that, he leaves the room with not even an “I’m very sorry.” The technician looks at me in sympathy and helps me get dressed. She’s supposed to give me some paperwork but forgets.
It’s been a long day.
I walk out of the clinic in a stupor. Cancer? Me? Oh my God. I’ve been visiting and companioning seniors for years and witnessed death several times, including my mother’s.
Is it my turn now? But I’m only 61.
I fear the treatment, especially chemo, more than I do death. I watched Margaret, a close girlfriend, go through chemo last year.
I walk slowly to the car where my husband, Theo, has been waiting for two hours.
“I’ve got breast cancer,” I announce angrily and then burst into tears.
He’s as stunned as I am and pats my leg gently as he drives home in silence.
April 2, 2010
It’s Good Friday today and all medical facilities are shut for the next four days. There’s nothing good about this Friday. I think of Jesus suffering alone in the garden of Gethsemane and have an inkling of how he felt. May I have his courage and faith. My biggest fear is losing control.
Is there some hidden meaning in all this?
I’ve been withdrawing from my work as an editor, personal historian and spiritual companion for a while now. I’ve felt increasingly flat, without my usual energy and optimism. A fallow period I’ve called it. Has my body been speaking to me?
April 3, 2010
I feel numb as if I’m in a tomb on this Holy Saturday. Last night, a violent windstorm left debris all over our garden. I call my sister, Maria, and a few close friends and tell them my news. I read The Last Lecture written by Randy Pausch as a legacy to his family before he died of pancreatic cancer at age 47.
Perhaps I should get back to writing my own life story instead of editing other people’s memoirs?
April 6, 2010
Books are among my favourite companions, so I rush to the library and begin reading. I’m horrified to discover the long list of chemo side effects; worst of all is the nausea and brain fog. I grill my girlfriend, Margaret, who comforts me but confirms some of my fears. I decide I’m having none of it, unless my cancer is at an advanced stage. Surgery, radiation and hormonal drug therapy, yes, but no chemo. I feel more in control now.
That night I dream of Mum slumped over a table, dead. The next day, a friend urges me to “just change your thoughts.” Another tells me to “think positive.”
I feel like spitting at both of them. As if it were that easy.
They mean well, but what I really need is someone to just listen to me. I read Jon Kabat-Zinn’s Full Catastrophe Living and feel some small comfort. Just breathe, I tell myself, during my daily meditation and long brisk walks. But the nameless anxiety in the pit of my stomach grows.
April 8, 2010
For distraction, Theo and I go see the IMAX show about the Hubble Space Telescope. I’ve always been fascinated by astronomy and cosmology, but today, I’m overwhelmed. The photos of colliding galaxies and imploding black holes are awesome, but where is a loving God in all this?
Am I living in a random, meaningless universe – a chaotic chemical soup?
The Buddha says we are more than flashing thoughts and desires and aching bodies – we are like waves in an ocean, connected to all beings. But how do love and quantum physics fit together?
April 9, 2010
My G.P. calls me at home early in the morning with my biopsy results. “I’m afraid you have invasive ductal carcinoma,” he tells me. “We won’t know the stage or grade of your tumour until you have surgery,” he explains. I’m shocked by the word “invasive.” He’s booked an appointment for me with a well-known Victoria surgeon one week later to discuss a lumpectomy (a partial mastectomy). I’m grateful for his sympathy and fast action.
An hour later, Theo drives me to Thrifty’s for our weekly food shopping. He stays in the car while I go up and down the aisles in a daze. All of a sudden, I feel a pain in my chest and very dizzy. I rush to a bench and sit down and burst into tears. Kind staff flock to my side and then locate my husband in the parking lot. My spiritual director tells me later that panic attacks stem from suppressed feelings.
I’d not processed that word “invasive.”
April 10, 2010
I teach the Writing & Sharing Your Life Story program at First Met United all day, surprised by my ability to function normally. Girlfriends suggest supper afterwards, but I feel tired and withdrawn. I can’t put on a brave smile anymore. I visit an elder in hospital the next morning who’s dehydrated and delirious from morphine. Another elder friend in Peterborough dies later the same day.
I’m rescued by a compassionate nurse, Dorothy, at VGH’s Breast Health Clinic. A friend and breast cancer survivor had told me about this free but not well-publicized resource. Theo and I visit Dorothy on Monday and she walks us through the entire process, promising to be there for me throughout my treatment.
“Chemo is the pits,” she agrees. “But you’re not a victim. You can choose your treatment.”
“But I can’t even handle an MRI – I’m claustrophobic!” I moan.
She tells me I can and I will.
April 12, 2010
“Can you come down right now for your MRI? We’ve had a cancellation,” the VGH rep tells me over the phone.
“Oh no!” I cry. “I can’t stand to be confined.”
“Just come down and look at the machine. It’s not that bad and you can take an Ativan if you wish before you come,” she suggests kindly.
So Theo, the perennial chauffeur, rushes me over to VGH. Feeling quite mellow, I get hooked up to an IV for the dye, and then climb onto the MRI table face down, with my naked boobs hanging vertically through two holes.
Talk about a classy position!
I’m slid backwards into the machine but my shoulders and head are left outside. I can still escape.
Classical music in the background helps me calm down and breathe and I’m released in 15 minutes, hugely relieved and proud of myself.
Perhaps this is how the future will unfold?
Great anxiety followed by a not-so-fearful outcome? Just like my divorce 20 years ago.
I was convinced I’d fall apart, but discovered I could live alone with integrity and courage after all.
...to be continued...
By Terry Dance-Bennink . First Published in Island Gals Magazine . 2011 . Volume 1 . Issue 1
