“How are you feeling?” my oncologist asks over the phone.
I can tell these conversations are hard for her because I know she cares about me. Not in a way that makes me special, but through a connection built on mutual respect that I believe has blossomed into an expression of love.
I always have to check in with myself before answering a question directed at my body. I don’t really know what a normal baseline is anymore in terms of how I should be feeling physically. My mind has learned to reframe discomfort and pain as background noise, but I’m constantly having to dial it back these days because it’s getting louder. So I state the facts, careful not to step into the trap of meaning-making.
“Well, I can feel T4 now. It feels vulnerable and achy, and I think it’s causing the painful kink under my shoulder blade that I’ve had for weeks. The remnants of the ulceration in my breast have congealed into a larger mass and shifted to the upper outer corner, near where it broke open before. It’s pulling on the fascia and restricting movement along my right side. I remember this pattern from before, and I’m concerned it will open up again.”
As I say this, I recognize that it is a valid assessment based on past experience, and from here, I begin to see the footing for my next step.
We both know we’re at the next phase of responding to my scan results, which showed disease progression in my T4 vertebra, breast and nearby lymph nodes. Our dialogue is open, calm and collaborative. I listen, doing my best to stay out in the open, because it’s only here that I’ll find breadcrumbs to follow.
She suggests another round of chemo, and I name the drug before she can. This surprises and impresses her. I’ve revisited my genetic testing results from a year ago, and that drug did show up as a possible match. I do feel informed. Even so, chemo doesn’t click into place.
“What do you think?” she asks.
The next step hasn’t solidified, but it’s forming as I answer her. It is emerging from the joining of our minds, as we come together to find a step we can both follow.
“I feel my body needs a break after the last eight rounds of chemo. Can we discuss surgery and radiation?”
It’s such a strange thing to be discussing treatments that used to terrify me more than cancer itself, without any resistance. My heartbeat is steady, my voice is calm, my mind is alert as our conversation moves into territory that used to be completely off-limits.
I haven’t been eligible to discuss what my doctors call “non-curative” procedures like surgery and radiation since I was diagnosed with metastatic cancer, but now I feel able to state my case with conviction.
I advocate for this new direction, which becomes clearer as I speak. It’s been years since I could properly hug someone without guarding my tender breast with my elbow. Lump, with its dense thicket of scar tissue, takes up more than half the real estate of what’s left of my right breast. It tugs, it swells, it demands attention. It has a mind of its own, a constant reminder of workarounds and all that I’ve been through.
Suddenly, I know.
“I want a mastectomy,” I say.
I don’t need to argue my case. She gets it as a way to maintain my quality of life. I deeply appreciate her support as she agrees to expedite the process with the surgeon I requested. The same surgeon I’ve returned to numerous times along the way, without ever quite landing under his knife. The ease of arriving here confirms that I’ve found the next crumb.
Resilience is moving towards life, regardless of what it brings us, and making hard decisions from a place of equanimity. This is what I feel as I find myself ready to part ways with my breast. I don’t feel the desperate attachment to save it that I carried for so many years. I no longer need the symbol of Lump to remind me of what I’m learning. I no longer need my breast to be who I already am. I don’t need to know why anymore. I can feel the ripeness of it. It is finally time to let it go.
I used to think resilience was rooted in grit and brute strength. The power to push through anything, to fight back no matter what life throws at you. Now, the meaning of the word comes with grace. It is soft and malleable, yet holds power without defence. This is how I want to meet life.
People often refer to cancer as something to battle. For me, after seven years of living alongside Lump and watching its offspring come and go, it has become a symbol of what I am not. It is a mirror that reflects where I place my belief. When it becomes the centre of my life, I feel afraid and at its mercy. It evokes the need to control and fix an identity that insists I am broken.
Cancer brings my humanity to the forefront: the pain, the confusion, the destitution, and the hope of healing. The belief that it is a death sentence can easily become the whole story and sabotage the miracle of life. There is a massive hole in the story Lump wants me to believe. How can I be broken if I am already whole?
Disease is a contradiction, and coherence is my healing. I know this to be true, but the process is a continual return, losing and finding my way again.
No, this is not a battle. Lump is not my enemy. What is required is the greatest love and compassion to forgive what it would have me believe about who I am.
Through this body, I am continually learning where I am placing my value.
This is how I want to meet life: not by how much I can endure, but by continuing to peel away the layers of belief that steal my joy and sabotage my worth.
My circumstances may change, my body may struggle, and the future may be uncertain, but I can still choose love, gratitude and joy as my inner response.
This is my path of healing. Through this choice, I begin to live what I am remembering.
The conversation with my oncologist continues to unfold with ease. We both agree that radiation on my T4 vertebra may help with the discomfort and dampen the cancer activity there. And just like that, in a short phone call, I receive the grace of peace around the decision I have made. This has become my cue that I am being guided. This is the only way I know how to do this now.
Before she hangs up, my oncologist makes it clear that systemic chemo is the only way to address circulating cancer cells in my system. I know it is her job to do so, and it is my job to receive her care with an open mind. I do so while staying true to my process, knowing that the steps beyond these are still unknown and I can only place my footing where I can clearly see the path. She understands, and it feels like she has wrapped a warm blanket around me.
I meet with my surgeon the following week. Since our first meeting a few years ago, I have continued to be held by his warm, approachable and professional manner. He inspects my scarred breast with interest. The last time he saw me, I was in critical condition, weakened by the onslaught of staph infections from the ulcerating tumour, too weak to undergo treatment.
He had been called in to discuss palliative surgery to cut out the mess, which would require other parts of me to be sliced out and used to patch up my breast. After eight months of toughing out the breakdown process, believing it would eventually heal on its own, I was at the end of my rope and agreed to do whatever was necessary. Miraculously, the wound closed over just before the plans for surgery were set in place, but not without leaving behind the remnants of what had been there. Now, I wish to let go of the rest.
It feels like we’ve come full circle, under better circumstances, with me feeling strong and ready for this surgery.
My surgeon believes he can remove not only Lump but also the significant scar tissue that has restricted blood and lymph flow, both of which are necessary for healthy tissue. He admits that he won’t know if he can get clear margins until he goes in there, but he thinks I may regain some elasticity in that region with this surgery. He will also remove the hardened lymph node that is pulling and causing numbness under my arm. As a doctor, he is compelled to make it clear that the surgery isn’t curative, but he also sounds confident that it can help as the next step.
This surgery feels like a gift I stumbled upon, given by a man I already trust. I pick up the breadcrumb and put it in my pocket as I leave his office smiling.
I audibly let out a breath when the radiation oncologist walks into the little cubicle of an exam room at the cancer centre. I feel my decision validated as soon as our eyes lock. I’m overwhelmed with relief, held in Love’s presence.
How can a stranger feel like a friend in an instant? Because I am guided to see her as a breadcrumb along Love’s path. I don’t need to figure everything out because I’m being shown how to live: to trust that each moment is guiding me to the right person, on the right path, at the right time, affirming a life without fear ruling me.
“The level of radiation you’ll be receiving should be enough to control the activity that is causing you discomfort, but it’s not meant to get it all,” she says.
I understand in an instant that she, too, is assuming I’ll be doing chemo after this.
“Well, I’m still not sure I’ll do another round of chemo. I’m just taking everything one step at a time. I’d like to recover from the radiation and surgery, and perhaps get a baseline scan again before I consider the step after that,” I respond.
“Oh, okay. Well, let me make sure you’re booked for another PET scan, with enough time to fully recover. Then we’ll talk about the results and discuss things from there.”
Even though we have just met, I get the sense that she sees me. Not just as a patient navigating cancer, but as someone who is finding her way. I am not doing this alone. I am receiving insight that is being supported, and to me, this is a miracle.
I’m astounded by the efficiency of my healthcare team, working together to create a treatment schedule that is happening right away. This week, I will travel solo to the cancer centre to begin my radiation treatment. I receive another confirmation in the form of an incredibly generous discount on a cozy condo that will become my writing hub, where I hope to finish the bulk of my memoir. This, too, feels perfectly orchestrated.
Then, another wink from Holy Spirit: the naturopath I want to see offers to sell me the product I believe will support my recovery from radiation and surgery, without the expensive consultation that is normally required.
This body is my vessel, and I tend to it as a means of becoming more of what I really am. My purpose and healing are one. Love leaves breadcrumbs along the way, and I trust that I will find them and follow.
LESSON: LIFE BECOMES THE BRIDGE FROM THE UNKNOWN TO THE KNOWN.
