The Big “C”

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month

It’s not what you’re thinking.  This is about the word “Can.” The first part of that word that changes everything.

Maybe you have just heard from your doctor that you have cancer.  Or someone you love has found out the same thing.  It is a shock.  It is not what you expected.  It is not what you want to hear.  Or deal with, or understand.  But there it is.  You think you cannot do it, but you can.  And so you must.

 I come from a family with cancer on both sides.  My mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, her sisters, some of their children, all had breast or ovarian cancer.  The gene mutation BRCA-2 is the likely cause.  My mother had the gene, my mother’s sister does not. It’s a 50/50 shot whether you get it, and unfortunately, I did. My maternal grandfather recently passed away from metastatic skin cancer.  That was unexpected.  He did live to be 93 years old, but skin cancer, that was a surprise.  My paternal grandfather, brain cancer.  My father, renal cancer, my stepmother, breast cancer.   It’s everywhere, and the sadness and grief it brings is overwhelming.

I live with it every day.  It’s not something that I think about, it is actually something I try not to think about, or it can set me spinning.  When I do allow myself to think about it, it doesn’t always affect me in the same way.  There are moments where I feel great anger, or deep sadness or stark terror.  Some times resignation, other times indifference.   It may not be a conscious thought, but it is always lurking, just under the surface, standing back in the shadows.

I have the BRCA-2 gene mutation (you may have heard about this in the news recently regarding an actress with the other gene, BRCA-1).  Because I have the BRCA-2 gene, I had a preventative double mastectomy to reduce my chances of getting breast cancer (from 87% to 5%).  But the joke was on me, because I found out after the surgery that I already had cancer.  Yep, both breasts, undetected. If I had not had that procedure, I would not have found out until the disease had progressed further. I had every test imaginable, and none of them showed that I had cancer.  I was lucky.  We caught it early and I could do something about it.  I had six months of harsh chemotherapy. I had several reconstructive surgeries.  I even took the next step and had my ovaries and fallopian tubes removed as well.  It’s drastic, yes, but I had 50% chance of getting ovarian cancer.  I’m just not interested in that.

To me, my breasts and ovaries were not my arms and legs.  They weren’t things that impact mobility or being able to take care of one’s self.  That is not to diminish their importance, in both practical and emotional ways.  I look different, I have lost feeling in nerve endings in my chest and back, and I have scars and dents and other things. I have to take medication to keep my estrogen levels down so that the cancer doesn’t come back.  The meds give me hot flashes and bone and joint pain, and it can cause osteoporosis and other serious things.  I deal with side effects every day, and that makes things more challenging than they could be, but it is better than the alternative. 

It’s not a walk in the park, but it isn’t impossible either.  I have to take this medication for the next five to ten years.  That’s just how it goes, and I have to try to make the best of it.  If it helps me to live longer, then I will do it, and the rest I just have to suck up.  Everyone has their something, and I am no different. 

The one thing I do have is the knowledge that I have done everything I can to prevent getting cancer again.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t obsess about what I put in my body – is this going to make it come back if I eat this or drink that?  What if I use this product with chemicals or this product with plastic or what if they didn’t get it all and there is some rogue cancer cell roaming undetected in my body somewhere?  It goes on and on and on.   The fact is, we are all going to leave this earth some day.  I am not afraid of that; I just have a lot I still want to do. 

I watched cancer take my beautiful, vibrant mother and diminish her body to practically nothing. It could not vanquish her spirit nor her will to live.  Her legacy and my job as her daughter is to live and do and be all the things I want and dream and desire, because she did not get that chance.  Her illness was a gift as much as a curse, as it was a warning that this could also happen to me.  It did happen, but I am still here to talk about it.  She saved my life, and I have to make that worth something. 

©2013 F. Hernandez

So if this has just happened to you, take a deep breath.  It is completely overwhelming. There is much to be decided and there are so many things that can be done.  You can do this.  If it is happening to someone you love, then you need to take a deep breath, and hold their hand.  Let them know that you are there, and you will “love them through it.”  You can do that, too.  The love and support that I have seen countless times in a hundred ways is the best medicine that anyone could have, and that is what will carry you.  You just have to open your arms and let the love in – you can get through it.  You can.  Don’t let it define you.  Cancer is just a word.  You are so much more than that.  Let it be just something else that has happened to you in your wondrous life.  There are many more things to experience and move through, and this is just another one of those times. You can do this. You can.  You CAN.

-AK