How to Survive a Cancer Diagnosis

“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” Desmond Tutu

Nearly six years ago, I saw a lump in my chest while undressing in front of my bedroom mirror. You might wonder how one actually sees a lump, as opposed to finding it manually.

Months before, I had embarked on a rigorous diet and exercise plan where I completely overhauled what I put into my body, as well as the way I “worked it.”

I lost a ton of weight and was thinner than I’d been in my twenties. Because my body fat ratio was so low, the lump was close to the skin and visible.

Creepy, yes. And it scared the living hell out of me. So much so that I thought I would pass out.

On wobbly legs, I ran into the office where my husband was working and showed him. The blood drained from his face. The only thing I remember him saying was something to the effect that, “We have to have this looked at immediately.”

Like so many people do, I’d had a hint that something was amiss and ignored it.

When I was heavier and working out, if I laid on my stomach, I felt a weird “bunching up” in my right breast. Stupidly, I dismissed it as scar tissue from surgery to remove a benign tumor when I was twenty-one. I was wrong.

At the time, I was between doctors. I didn’t even have a general practitioner. So my husband called his longtime physician and we were able to get an appointment right away.

I hadn’t yet succumbed to the panic that was bubbling up inside me like oil in a deep-fryer. But I was close to crumbling.

The doctor, an empathetic old-school guy who actually called you himself with test results, examined the lump and said that he “didn’t think” it was anything but a cyst, but I could tell by the look on his face that he was hedging for my benefit. Naturally, he ordered further tests.

I have no recollection of how I ended up with the team of doctors that treated me. The doctor handled everything.

Certain situations and events are hazy for me because I think, due to my mental state at the time, I shut down.

But, to the best of my recollection, I believe that first, I had a mammogram, followed by an ultra-sound with a radiologist at Delnor Hospital in Geneva, Illinois (now an affiliate of Chicago’s excellent Northwestern Hospital.)

In the radiologist’s office, as I lay on my back with cold goo on my chest, I looked up at the doctor and his tech assistant as they moved the probe over my chest and watched the monitor. Suddenly, he stopped and held it over the lump.

Voice low, he asked his assistant, “Do you see that?” She nodded and I knew, as my body went ice-cold, that I had cancer.

The doctor looked down at me. His eyes bored into mine. “Losing weight probably saved your life,” he said.

I later learned that the particular cancer I had was estrogen-forward. And extra weight can cause the hormone to build up in the body.

Cancer. The C-Word. I literally caved in on myself. There’s no other way to put it. My mind simply…slowed to a crawl.

My husband, who had been watching from a corner of the room rushed over and held me, while the assistant rubbed my back.

The radiologist led my shocked husband into the hallway where they could talk privately.

I later learned that he’d told him that my cancer was caught early and was “curable.”

That never resonated with me as I’d had several relatives die from various cancers and thought that I would soon join them. In fact, both my parents had been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer less than two months earlier.

I’m telling you all this because I want you to know that if you should ever receive a similar diagnosis, the initial fear will cripple you.

You will be so blindsided that getting out of bed in the morning will be a challenge. Know that it’s completely natural to feel this way.

Quickly, I was referred to an oncologist specializing in breast cancer and a surgeon who my husband’s doctor recommended. My team was split: The oncology and radiology departments were at Delnor and my surgeon was at St. Francis Hospital in Evanston, Illinois.

I was to have a lumpectomy, prior to which I’d have dye injected into my chest to see if cancer had spread to my lymph nodes.

Here is something you need to know: At every doctor’s appointment, be sure to have a family member or a friend to accompany you so that they can help you ask the right questions and take notes because trust me, you will forget everything.

Friday the 13th was the day of the surgery. It was February and freezing cold. It’s a long ride from where we live, in a northwest Chicago suburb, to Evanston, which is far north.

We left before 6 a.m. and my mind took flight during the ride to the hospital. I was somewhere else and that’s where I wanted to stay. Until it was all over.

I won’t bore you with the details of the day other than to say that my complexion remained a rather ghastly shade of blue for a couple of days due to the dye injections. But my lymph nodes were clear! One hurdle, over.

After my surgery, I had a long consultation with my oncologist, who I’ve grown to love. He remained positive and upbeat and that positivity was infectious. That’s the attitude you’ll want to seek out for your own care.

Because the cancer was caught so early, he didn’t see the need for chemotherapy, and I was thrilled to receive that news. Also, I was to receive daily radiation treatments with weekends off. Four weeks instead of the usual six.

Every morning, promptly at 10 a.m., I went to the hospital for my radiation treatments and then went to work.

I was also to take medication to suppress estrogen in my body. It’s called Femara and the generic version, which I take is Letrozole. I was to be on this for five years.

Of course, I googled Letrozole and had a panic attack reading the potential side effects, some of which I have experienced. (Note: Stay off Google.)

What I found: Hair thinning. Blurred vision. Weight gain. That last one I was able to side-step, as I’ve been vigilant in my diet and exercise habits.

Bottom line: Over time, my body adapted and so can yours. In fact, now that it’s five years later, I’m to stop taking Letrozole at the end of April. Huzzah!

Support. I can’t stress how important this is. Get it any way you can from anyone you can.

Let your family and friends know how frightened you are. How confused. Let yourself be vulnerable. Don’t let your self-care routines fall by the wayside. They’re more important now than ever.

Use whatever de-stressors you have available. Meditate. Do yoga. Cuddle your pets.

I joined an online breast cancer support group and am so thankful for the wonderful women who helped me through. Some of them had been cancer-free for years and knew the drill backward and forwards. They talked me off the ledge on several occasions.

I’ve been wanting to revisit the site so I can help other women, in turn, but can no longer find it. That’s one of the reasons I’m writing this story. Hopefully, I can help someone here.

My oncologist told me that he sees at least five newly-diagnosed women a week. That is a shocking statistic. All the pink shit in the world has barely scratched the surface of eradicating this disease. And this, too, is shocking.

If you’ve had cancer and have made it through your five-year market, which I just did, let’s raise a glass in gratitude.

If you’ve been newly diagnosed and are scared witless, please know that you’re not alone. Fear is to be expected and can be dealt with. And there is also hope.

Cancer is not the death sentence it once was. Early detection is key and with breast cancer specifically, ladies, keep those mammogram appointments. No excuses!

Plus, don’t forget your self-exams. If something doesn’t feel right, see your doctor immediately.

And, if you find yourself in a place where you need the support of someone whose been there, get in touch with me. I’ll be happy to help in any way I can. So, to recap, if you’ve been diagnosed with cancer:

Seek out a team of doctors who will take the time to explain everything.

Bring a family member or friend with you to all appointments.

Don’t be hesitant to express your fears or ask for hugs when you need them. People will want to be there for you. Let them.

Practice self-care. Don’t give up your routines. They’ll keep you grounded. Routines help us feel “normal” when our world is spinning out of control.

Be smart about getting the information you need, but don’t go overboard online. There’s as much misinformation in Cyberspace as there are relevant facts.

Finally, take good care of yourself. And, as hard as it may seem, and as pat, do your best to remain hopeful. Because, as my late father said to me after my diagnosis, in all likelihood, “You’re going to be just fine.”

© Sherry McGuinn, 2021. All Rights Reserved.