Phase 1. Building Your Inner Circle: A State of Shock as the Means to Maintaining Composure.
First, determine who in your immediate world needs to know about this right away, if only to keep you from crumbling emotionally. Your list might include traditional family members such as your spouse/significant other, children, siblings and parents. But think carefully. Your traditional family may not be as much support as you need, for any number of reasons—they won’t handle the news well themselves, they are preoccupied with illnesses or life challenges of their own, they are geographically distant, etc. Perhaps there are a few other people who should be included in this “inner circle” of support, people who you know will provide that rock-solid pillar of emotional stability that you’ll need for the next several months. Consider them surrogate family. Choose about four or five people. See them in person, if possible, so they can see you, touch you, and know that you are the same person. Otherwise call them. But regardless of how you contact them, please soften the shock a bit by prefacing your news with a comment like, “I have something to tell you, but please hear this first . . . I will be fine . . .”
Despite vocalizing your news, you might still be in shock and not believe this is happening to you. Like me, you might not have even shed one tear yet. That’s okay, you’re numb. (Or maybe you have. And that’s okay too.) Even as I tried to sleep that first night, I didn’t cry. But I did lie awake all night, shivering so uncontrollably that my teeth chattered, out of terror, fear, and uncertainty of what lay ahead....
Phase 2. First Cry, See Your Doctor . . . Then Do Something Spectacular.
As the numbness wears off and reality sets in, you might start to cry, and have moments when you just can’t stop. That is absolutely normal. After a while, you’ll feel the need to pull yourself together. I found that two things helped put a stop to my crying. First, have the consultation with your doctor to identify all the issues you need to address, and determine the options you have to remove the cancer. Bring someone from your “inner circle” with you to take notes on what the doctor recommends. In your state of mind, you might be listening, but you won’t hear, let alone comprehend, everything.
By just knowing that there are a lot of options for you to eradicate this cancer from your body and your life, you will feel much better. The doctor might discuss lumpectomy versus mastectomy, radiation, chemotherapy, even hormone therapy. Yes, it is terrifying, but it also can provide a strange sense of calm. Although I had never been in a hospital in my entire life—except the day I was born—I felt great relief knowing that soon I would have surgery to get the cancer out of me. In fact, the surgery was scheduled for a few weeks later, but I was so panicked that the cancer was multiplying exponentially by the minute that I asked the doctor to move the surgery date sooner. Eight days later, I had a lumpectomy and axillary lymph node dissection. (See the discussion in Chapter 3, “Deciding on Surgery.”)
The second approach is to do something that absorbs all of your concentration. After a doctor’s visit that airs all the issues you’ll have to address over the next several months, do something spectacular, something completely out of the ordinary of your daily routine. Do something that takes your full attention, that raises others’ expectations of you, that has absolutely nothing to do with your current trauma. In my case, I had to go to work and, in fact, had scheduled interviews with senior executives for a book project we were deep in the midst of. So I walked out of the doctor’s office, wiped my tears dry yet one more time, and pulled out the company’s annual report on the way to their offices. After all, I needed to know what the company did before I could intelligently interview! I had to be “on” and could not re-schedule. So, with eyes as pink as the magenta suit I was wearing that day, I conducted my interviews, just as if life were “normal.”
If you are fortunate enough not to have to go to work, then do something that will make you smile, but make sure you are around other people to distract you. Take your children to an amusement park. Have an extra-long exercise session at your gym to make yourself feel really good. Work on any community activities you might be involved in that make you feel good about helping others less fortunate than you. Just don’t think about yourself for the time being.
Phase 3. Expand Your Inner Circle: Break the News, Be Surprised.
By the time you move into the third phase, you may be composed enough to start breaking your news to a wider circle of people. While you might worry that telling others will make you feel like a leper, believe it or not, it will make you feel better. I decided to expand my initial inner circle by calling my six closest friends in the world, regardless of where they lived, to tell them the news, but also tell them that I was going to really need them to be there for me during the coming months. Guess what? Of this small sampling of women, women whom I thought I knew so well, each had an acquaintance or coworker who had been through breast cancer and was completely fine! My own spontaneous sample had a survival rate of 100 percent! They even told inspirational stories of women who had gone on to marry, have children, start new careers, etc. This was great! Not only did I no longer feel all alone in the world, but I learned very early that plenty of women do get through this experience (hence, my title), and that my friends would be there to help me.
Determine who else you might want to tell your news personally rather than having them hear indirectly by word-of-mouth. However, make sure that these are people who will be supportive, optimistic, and hopeful. Let them know that, as part of your inner circle, they will be counted on to play several roles for you over the coming months. (See page 3, “Communicating the News.”) You don’t need to pick anyone else up off the floor right now.
It’s Only Two Easy Syllables, but It Might Take Some Time to Be Able to Say the “C” Word.
The word cancer is everywhere in our society. On a nearly daily basis, the news bombards us. We are informed of some new medical treatment for some type of cancer, made aware of some fundraising effort for cancer research, or reminded of yet someone else who has been diagnosed or passed away from cancer. But when the word becomes personally attached to your own individual identity, it becomes much more difficult to verbalize. It may take you several weeks. I started by explaining, “I have malignant cells,” then graduated to admitting, “I have a hard time saying the c-word, but I need to have surgery,” and finally was able to say, “I have breast cancer, and need to go through treatment.” Find your own comfort level over time with divulging the “c” word.
How Can I Be Sick? I Feel Great! A Bit of Healthy Denial Is Just Fine.
Your initial response to the doctor’s unfortunate news might be exactly this. Sorry, cancer doesn’t discriminate, but your response is very typical—denial. You want to deny that cancer could find its way into your busy, fulfilling life, when you are so energetic and strong and feel great. You may have never even had any other “female” health conditions before, so this must be a mistake. Unfortunately, breast cancer doesn’t provide any warning until the tumor appears, and even then is not generally associated with any pain or discomfort. So, you refuse to believe that this could be happening to you.
Denial is the first stage of the grieving process of denial, anger, and eventual acceptance. It is a natural human emotional response, and must be balanced between constructive and destructive aspects. Use your denial in constructive ways to keep your attitude positive, to keep your life as “normal” as possible, to refuse to believe that you might die. You are entitled to a bit of healthy denial, and inevitably will move through it to accept it in your own time frame and on your own terms. It is a loss to be grieved—a perceived loss of femininity and sexuality, a loss of a sense of invincibility and immortality, and in the case of mastectomies, a physical loss of part of your body. Nobody can deny you the entitlement to grieve and experience a sense that your own body has betrayed you. However, don’t let it become destructive. Don’t let denial paralyze you to the extent that you don’t seek out advice regarding treatment and hopeful eradication of this disease from your body as soon as possible! And don’t hesitate to seek out support groups even if you think you’re really “fine” with it.
Come Back Next Month. The Timing Here Is Really Terrible.
Sorry, there’s never a good time for cancer to enter your life.