CANCER AND BEYOND. A PERSONAL JOURNEY . PART II
- Terry Dance-Bennink
- Jan 7
- 6 min read
Updated: 9 hours ago
April 19, 2010
My surgeon is a blond Amazon —
competent, decisive, a woman of few words and little time, but I trust her hands.
I’m scheduled for a lumpectomy (partial mastectomy) at Victoria General Hospital on April 19, 2010 — less than three weeks after my initial diagnosis of breast cancer.
Thank God I moved to Victoria.
A needle in my left breast comes first.
It carries blue dye to help the surgeon determine if my lymph nodes are cancerous. Afterwards, I’m wheeled to a waiting area where my husband, Theo, joins me. Four hours go by and I stay calm, much to my surprise. “Nothing can frighten, nothing can worry, those who seek God shall never go wanting,” I repeat over and over in sync with deep belly breaths.
I’m wheeled upstairs at 1:30 p.m. and the surgeon removes a 1.2 cm tumour and five lymph nodes.
I will have to wait several weeks for the pathology report to learn the stage and grade of my cancer. I wake up in a room with a view of trees, and after a night of expert nursing care, I don’t want to leave!
At home, I’m stiff and sore for a few days, but it’s not as bad as I feared.
I do my prescribed 15 minutes of breast exercises twice a day. My breast looks weird with one third of it missing, as though it’s in a halter. I’ve always had big boobs, so in a way, I don’t mind a shrunken version. Forty kind emails, several casseroles made by friends and some TLC from hubby — I could get used to this.
April 26, 2010
A week later, I take my first slow walk around the block. I feel tired by 10 a.m.
I read Ken Wilber’s moving account of his wife’s death from breast cancer, Grace and Grit. Scary but inspiring. While survival rates have increased dramatically, breast cancer can still be deadly. A friend calls and says, “You’re feeling great, eh?”
Hardly. Not bad, but not great.
People mean well, but some folks just don’t know what to say to a person with cancer.
Just be a heart with ears.
May 7, 2010
Still no pathology report results.
I won’t know whether the dreaded chemo is on tap for me or not until this report comes in. I’m waiting again, stuck on pause. More reading about death and the meaning of life. I’m both a particle and a wave; it’s a paradox, not an either/or.
Terry will not dissolve into nothingness (or will she?).
“Who am I really?” is the question spiritual teacher Gangaji keeps posing in The Diamond in Your Pocket.
“And why does life after death matter so much to you?” a counsellor at the cancer agency gently inquires.
May 8, 2010
Good news!
My pathology report is in and Dorothy, the wonderful nurse at VGH’s Breast Health Clinic, spends an hour with me on the phone debriefing its contents.
“Your tumour is a Stage I, Grade 2; cancer and the margins are clear, which means the cancer probably hasn’t migrated elsewhere,” she explains. “It’s a relatively small tumour and the cells are dividing at medium speed.”
I’m grateful.
May 10, 2010
I feel almost normal.
The beginning is the worst stage of the cancer journey, the experts say, when you don’t know what you’re dealing with.
Shock, denial and anger rule the roost.
But the waiting periods in between treatments are just as troubling.
I troop down to the B.C. Cancer Agency even though I’m not an official client yet and take out two more books from its wonderful library. Dr. Rachel Remen suggests “Don’t seek new vistas but see with new eyes” in her CD The Will to Live. She suffered from 47 years of chronic illness and speaks with authority.
May 15, 2010
“My emotions are like the weather,” I write in my journal.
Yesterday I felt weepy and anxious, but today I feel more peaceful and confident. And that’s OK, according to Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron, author of When Things Fall Apart. The trick is to embrace whatever I feel, good or bad — to accept it, even welcome it.
Only then does the pain dissolve.
As the weeks go by for this lady-in-waiting, I feel increasingly detached from my former work as an editor and spiritual companion. I cancel several workshop presentations and decline editing requests and the 5 Ds hit hard. I feel discouraged, disgruntled, disappointed, depressed and disconnected. Good friends stick by me and I’m able to support a few elders in need. But it’s not a happy time as I adjust to this “new normal.”
I’m being led where I’d rather not go.
“Stay in the now. This is an invitation to discover who you truly are,” my spiritual director advises. “You’re experiencing the dark night of the soul when consolations dry up.”
This helps. If I can find meaning in my angst, I can endure.
But who am I really, stripped of my roles?
May 20, 2010
Calm water returns a few days later.
I gaze at three photos of myself at 18 months old and feel great compassion. 'Stop scolding and berating yourself, Terry. Just hold the scared child in your arms and rock her'.
May 26, 2010
In a powerful dream, I watch a woman eat poisoned bread and die suddenly.
Then I see a black widow spider and fear I will be bitten and die. The scene changes as I climb up a small hillock and look down on the ocean. The hillock parts from land and drifts off to sea with me on it. I’m frightened, but other women are on this raft and they’re relaxed, looking forward to the trip. Soon we arrive at an island and I sense I’ve been here before.
There’s something familiar about this place.
And Theo is here too. I wake up reassured.
I’m not alone.
I won’t die (yet) even though the danger of poison exists (chemo and radiation). The black widow spider is poisonous, but not fatal to humans. Spiders also symbolize balance between physical/spiritual and male/female energies. Spiders are experts at walking on threads without losing their balance.
“If spider has come into your life, ask yourself, am I not weaving my dreams into reality?” the author of Animal Speak suggests. “Am I feeling closed in or stuck as in a web? Do I need to pay attention to balance in my life? Do I need to write but am not following through?”
Yes, yes, yes, I answer.
June 2, 2010
Finally, the B.C. Cancer Agency calls me with appointments to see two different oncologists.
I meet the medical oncologist a week later and he’s a gentle, quiet man who reviews my risks of cancer recurring without further treatment (up to 20%) and recommends radiation and hormonal therapy (Letrozole followed by Tamoxifen for five years).
“Chemo might improve your risk ratio by a few percent,” he says, “but the side effects are challenging.” He smiles in sympathy when I decline his offer.
June 15, 2010
Today, the radiation oncologist explains the ins and outs of radiation therapy and offers me the chance to participate in a research study. I must wait another month before treatment starts.
I’m becoming an expert waiter, albeit reluctantly.
Afterwards, I attend my first group relaxation session at the cancer agency and wish this had been available to me earlier. I lie on a comfortable bed in dim lighting and listen to calming music as I’m led through a guided visualization.
A volunteer strokes my feet and head and I release more tears.
The monthly breast cancer support group is another welcome resource. It’s great to be connected to women on the same raft. And after a session with the agency’s nutritionist, I give up my habit of one or two glasses of wine a day.
June 26, 2010
My husband and I celebrate our 18th wedding anniversary.
I’m grateful for this unusual man, 12 years old than I, who’s stood by me so calmly during my emotional seesaws. A former colleague from Ontario visits me a few days later, reminding me that relationships are what matter.
Love is what lasts, not power, fame or money.
June 28, 2010
Days before I start my radiation therapy, I dream of a red dress.
I’m on the second floor of a house and a man yells to me to “get out now.” Smoke and poison are beyond the door. I grab a suitcase and start to pack but pay special attention to a striking red dress, which I’m glad to see. I stuff it quickly into my bag, hanger and all, and escape from the house.
Once again, a symbol of poison, smoke and burning appears in my dream (radiation). I hate the idea of placing my boob in a microwave.
But in my dream, I consciously choose a bright red dress – a symbol of youth, vibrancy and life.
...to be continued...
By Terry Dance-Bennink . First Published in Island Gals Magazine . 2011 . Volume 1 . Issue 2
