What I learned in C School

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I like thousands of other women stepped in to an arena I knew very little about. Every year for 20 years I got my yearly mammogram. I I knew the drill; strip to my waist, put on the gown, read the latest People magazine in the waiting room, have the procedure, wait for the thumbs up, get dressed and be on my way until the next year.

Three years ago this month that all changed. Instead I watched as the tech came and said they needed to do an ultrasound because they saw something unusual. Then came the biopsy and I waited to hear the news. They told me the percentages were good that it would be normal. They do not use the big C word until the biopsy comes back. I got the news over the phone. The nurse called to say, 'It is cancer, I will set up an appointment with the surgeon.”

The shock set in immediately. There is no breast cancer in my family. I felt fine. I eat right. This must be a mistake. Looking back, it seemed more like being an actor in someone else's script than being fully present in my own life. I felt vulnerable and unsure. I found myself looking for answers to something that made no sense.

So I decided to get curious. I decided to look upon this as an educational experience. There were certainly life lessons that lay ahead for me. So I called it C School, got paper and pen in hand and began a yearlong journey exploring the many lessons of cancer. It might have been my way of coping with a difficult situation; again we all cope in different ways.

I first learned it is important to check out the different facilities that are available to treat cancer. Not all are created equal. There was a feel and a mood to each one that I visited. Some had color and lots of lights and windows. They greet you with a warm smile and a cup of tea. Another was somewhat overwhelming with more shades of gray and isolation. I was going to be spending a lot of time in the hospital I chose, so taking the time to check it out as well as the doctors set my mind more at ease.

The next lesson I learned was how important it was to have someone go with me to my office visits. I was blessed to have an advocate, someone who listened and said, 'I will be there for this journey.” He never judged, he never lost sight of his goal, which was to hear the words when I was in shock or too weak to know what needed to be done. He is my best friend and my husband.

I was also blessed to have an amazing surgeon who listened to me and never wavered in her desire to support my decisions. I would like to say that all of the care I received was informative and supportive, however that was not the case.

Perhaps it was because they had 15-minute slots to tell me what usually happens, not what might happen. If I was told about all the side effects, it was not in a way that I fully understood. They told me statistics that seemed confusing. I had to ask, 'Will you explain it in a way a lay person can understand?” I sought out different doctors to try to have a better understanding of what I was facing. Some had compassion; others were irritated at our request for deeper explanations of their recommendations. I ended up getting shingles from the radiation. The doctor in the emergency room seemed confused that the radiation triggered the shingles. The radiation tech the next day said, 'Oh we see it all the time.” I found the discrepancy in information curious.

Was I told about all these side effects? Were they covered in the sheet they had me sign before surgery? Would I have made the same decisions if I had known now what I knew then? It is all part of the cancer journey. After two surgeries, 18 radiation sessions, and several trips to the emergency room from side effects, I moved, slept, cried and laughed my way though that year.

Everyone involved did the best they could. There were many kind and caring professionals along the way. I have no regrets, for there are many paths one can take through this maze called cancer. The lesson I learned was to ask questions, as often and as many as I wanted, until I felt comfortable to make a thoughtful and supportive decision for my own treatment and recovery.

I chose not to do chemotherapy. It was not hard to make the decision for myself. It was hard to defend my decision to the doctors and family members that felt I was being irresponsible with my own life. I was challenged, guilt tripped, and cajoled into doing the 'right thing”.

You learn early on that when you are told something has invaded your body and that it is not functioning properly, there are many ways you can react to it. Some of those close to me thought I was in denial. I might have been in the beginning, but as the weeks progressed, I was in a space of curiosity, learning how to be non-judgmental, learning to hold myself in empathy and compassion. I was aware I was not an authority on cancer, but I was an authority on myself. I knew I might make a mistake in the choices I made and that no one knew the right decision for me but me. It was my body, my soul, and my story, not theirs. So I researched and researched and asked questions and more questions and then in the quiet of my own body and spirit I made the best decisions for me. Were they the right decisions? Only time will tell. I learned to not look back once the decision was made, to have faith in my doctors, my higher power, and myself.

I do not consider myself a survivor of cancer as much as I consider myself someone who is and will always be in recovery from the ordeal of having cancer. I worked hard not to let it define who I am. I chose not to partake in cancer survivor groups, not because I did not understand the fellowship and amazing women that waited to share their stories, but because I honestly was afraid if I talked about the cancer I would give it more power. I hold in such high admiration the cancer warriors and their families running the races with enthusiasm and courage.

People are well meaning and always want to know how you are doing. There were days when I prayed I did not run in to anyone I knew because I did not want to talk one more time about 'how I was doing with my cancer.” I knew that for my recovery it was important to set boundaries. It was taking back the power I felt the cancer had taken from me. I respect that everyone is different; everyone needs to write the chapters of their own life. All I can do is to write the chapters for mine.

Three years later I find that the word cancer is always with me. An ache, a pain, is it back, did it spread? Am I doing the right things? Am I eating the right foods? Am I taking the right supplements? It hovers over you like a drone that never touches the ground.

Are you in control of the cancer or is it in control of you? You have bad headaches and they do an MRI. Did the cancer spread? You have a pain in your back, an ultrasound; did the cancer spread? You have a pain in your chest, another ultrasound; did the cancer spread? Did the cancer spread? Did the cancer spread?

Early on in the process, I had one doctor who told me, 'I hope you are able to come back in 20 years to prove me wrong” for not following her recommendations. If her purpose by that comment was to instill her fear for my survival in me, she was skilled at doing her job. It never goes away.

How do you survive something that never goes away?

Every October, the anniversary of finding my cancer, I can feel the anxiety as I go through the drill one more time, getting ready for my yearly mammogram. That ease of not having to think about the outcome as I did for the prior 20 years will never return.

My relationship with cancer continues to be a journey. I will never be grateful that I got cancer. What I am grateful for is that year I spent in treatment allowed me to show up differently. I learned not to take the ones I love for granted. Not to sweat the small stuff. That in the big picture the little irritations in life do not matter. I wake up in love with life and cherish the time I have been given with friends and family. I learned it is about choices; owning my choices from a place of curiosity, faith, courage and resolve.

There is a quote by Mary Ann Radmacher that says, 'Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I'll try again tomorrow.” I learned it is about being grounded in the knowledge that I cannot control the cancer, I can only control how I respond to it.

And I learned it is about playing Lady Gaga as you get your final radiation, dancing around the room to The Edge of Glory, knowing that no matter what cancer has done to your body, your spirit has only gotten stronger.

' Roxanne Erdahl is a personal and professional empowerment life coach through her business Erdahl Coaching. She has been a community member of The Gazette Editorial Board since 2013. Comments: rmerdahl@gmail.com