Why I Feel Like a Cancer Phony

One of the big reasons I want to lose weight is to lower my risk of a recurrence of cancer. I had breast cancer in 2003, and don't want it to come back. I don't like to mention it much. A lot of people I've met in recent years don't even realize I had breast cancer. I don't talk about it, because -- rightly or wrongly-- I feel a little funny about it. I feel like a cancer phony. I had an early and small stage cancer that was able to be treated relatively quickly. I had a lumpectomy and radiation. I did not have chemotherapy--which is by far the worst part of most cancer treatment. I never lost my hair or had the crippling nausea.

But I'll always remember the female doctor coming in with my very first mammogram in her hand. She didn't even say the word "cancer." She said, "I want you to see how small IT is." I was 40 years old and at that time my children were ten, eight, and three years old. We had adopted our daughter Cece from Vietnam when she was a baby two and a half years earlier. My brain's first wild thought was, "I am going to die and my little girl won't even remember me." Which is silly, of course, because I wasn't going to die--but you aren't exactly thinking logically at the very moment you are told of your diagnosis. My eyes welled up with tears and I could barely choke out anything coherent.

Instantly, my mind conjured up a really bad scenario. "Wouldn't that be just the supreme irony?" I thought. I was the earthly force that pushed for Cece's adoption (I am 100% convinced that our heavenly father put the adoption in place years before hand). But I wanted it, I did all the adoption paperwork, and I went over to Vietnam twice to work out the adoption process and bring her home. Did Cece really need to lose another mother? "It would be just like the rottenness of life to have me die and leave my poor husband with three kids to raise," I thought.

Well, it soon became clear that instead of imagining my death I had to make some serious medical decisions. Everything was on the table--I could choose anything from a radical double mastectomy to a small surgery followed by six weeks of radiation therapy. I chose the later. Cancers are rated on a scale from zero (least serious) to five (spread throughout the body). I had a stage zero cancer in one breast. I saw no reason to have radical surgery. Really, I had the best possible cancer diagnosis in the world.

So maybe that's why I feel like a cancer phony. Because, in my mind, the C-word brings up all kinds of dramatic associations. A few years back, I walked with a young friend for a year as she battled and eventually beat a stage four cancer in her knee. She really went through hell-- becoming so thin and bald she looked like death itself. That didn't happen to me. So I feel weird telling people I had cancer. I guess I feel like I didn't suffer enough to warrant their sympathy.

Which is not to say early stage cancer is a picnic in the park. Surgery and six weeks of daily radiation treatments are a trial, but they are manageable. Actually, the worst part of my cancer treatment was having to put Cece in daycare a few hours every day so I could get radiation treatments. I think something about being around the children at daycare reminded Cece of the orphanage where she spent the first seven months of her life, because she screamed, cried, and threw epic tantrums each and every time I left her there. It tore my heart out, and if I had been leaving her for any other reason I would have quit daycare. But I had to take care of myself. With good reason, toddlers can not come to radiation appointments, and there really wasn't another choice.

So, it's very important for me to get back to a healthy body weight. I never want to be the cancer lady again. Time to hit the treadmill.
P.S. If you know someone who gets an early stage breast cancer diagnosis, tell them they WILL get through it. It's been seven years since my cancer. Point them to this blog, I will talk to them or write them directly to encourage them if they desire that.