Dealing With the Looming Cloud of the Possibility of Early Death

By Laura Yeager

Five years ago, I had breast cancer.  To rid myself of it, I had chemotherapy, radiation and a double mastectomy.

Flash forward five years.  One day, I noticed a strange, bright red splotch on my breast, the breast where the cancer had been.  The doctor did a biopsy of it, and the results came back malignant.  It was an angiosarcoma, and the suspected cause was the radiation treatment I’d had five years before.  This was a very rare form of cancer that, again, results sometimes from the radiation itself.  That which was meant to heal me, made me ill.

On June 10, 2016, I had surgery to remove the cancer.

Fine and dandy.  They got clean margins.  Then, something awful happened.  I was told that I had to have a CT scan to see if the cancer had spread throughout my body.  (Nobody told me this beforehand.)

Enter fear, despair and disappointment.  Enter the possibility of cancer and, therefore, the possibility of early death.

How am I dealing with this looming cloud of grief that is hanging over my head?

Below are some of my most useful techniques.

Ignore

I know it’s there, but I push the fear out of my mind.  This is kind of like swatting away a nasty fly.  You wave your hand, and the pesky insect disappears for a second.  Repeat the process ad infinitum.

Wallow

Cry, cry, cry, worry, worry, worry.  You cry until you have bruises under your eyes.  The worry makes you physically sick.

Tranquilize

Lorazepam and chocolate ice cream.  When you can deal with the threat no longer, you pop an Ativan.  To your surprise, eating chocolate ice cream with real chocolate pieces does the same thing as the pill does.

Laugh

My cousin, Mary, volunteers at a hospice.  She tells me that she makes ice cream sundaes for the patients every Saturday night.  You say you might be in that hospice soon.  She tells you she will make you an ice cream sundae every Saturday.  You both laugh.  Chuckling helps, but also gives you a strange, eerie feeling.

Forget

Get so busy that you forget.  The house needs cleaned.  The laundry needs done.  The dinner needs cooked.  By engaging in the day-to-day necessities, you somehow fail to remember your situation.

Shop

Retail therapy helps everything.  You go to JC Penney in search of brown, V-neck, short-sleeved tee shirts.  You’ve previously been to every store in a ten-mile radius and haven’t been able to locate them.  You find the shirts!  Your great retail success wipes out all bad thoughts.  Sometimes shopping can cure anything.

Pray

Ask God for help.  This is my most used technique in dealing with my fear of cancer.  Jesus saves.  He created the universe.  He can save me from metastasis.

Talk

Enlist the voices of friends.  Dissecting all the ins and outs of the issue with my best buddies is hugely relieving.

Commiserate

Diane, my close friend, also has cancer.  Talking to her, who is fighting the same battle I am, is an exquisite balm for the pain I’m feeling.  She tells you that she feels that her ship is sinking.  I say mine is, too.  Sharing this little cliché is like taking Taxol or B17 (depending on your point of view.)

Hope

I hang onto any shred of positivity I can find.  I found the cancer early on.  I had it cut out in its early stages.  The cancer was very small and only on the surface of the skin.

Mother

I tell myself, “If I have cancer, everything will be OK.”  Sometimes, we have to be our own Mom.  Coo “Everything will be fine.”

Deal

Face reality.  Sing “Stop Your Sobbing.”  Chrissie Hynde to the rescue.

Write

Writing is my true salvation.  Analysis and evaluation, with a bit of humor thrown in, are keys.  Hence this little blog post.

In a few days, I’ll know whether I have more cancer in my body or if I’m cancer-free.  I’ll discover the answer to the current huge question of my life.

Until then, I’ll continue to use these little strategies to get through the day.

It could be worse.  I could be drowning my sorrows in food or alcohol or illicit drugs.  But over the years, I’ve developed self-control with what I put into my body.

Ironically, exercise is not on this list.  And we all know exercise is an excellent stress killer.

In truth, I’m too weak from the surgery to exercise.

It’s as simple as this:  I will keep calm, and employ the techniques above. 

What else is a body to do?

Work Through Your Cancer

By Laura Yeager

At the time with my first bout of breast cancer, I was seeing a psychologist who advised me not to quit working if possible.  She said that staying on the job would keep my mind off my troubles and would give me a focus other than my illness.  I was working as a part-time writing teacher at a local university, going in three times a week in the morning.

I took her advice, and I’m glad I did.  I worked the whole semester, missing only four classes.  My friend, Leslie, filled in for me when I absolutely couldn’t show up.

That semester, I was getting chemotherapy on the weekends.  Thank goodness the chemo didn’t make me sick.  I just felt a little weak and tired.  And then, my hair started to fall out.  I remember one day in class, I said “You guys are making me pull my hair out!”  And then, for comic effect, I pulled a huge clump of it out of my head.  Some of the students laughed, and some found it distasteful.  I had a rapport with that class, so the gesture didn’t cause me to lose too much credibility.

That same day, I was going to go to the beautician to have my head shaved.  “Does anyone want to come with me?” I asked.  “I’ll be at Great Clips on Portage at 4:00 if anyone wants to meet me there.”

Surprise, surprise, no one showed up.

I’ve always been a fan of humor to work through difficult situations.  Of course, your office politics will determine have irreverent you can be.

Now, with this new bout of breast cancer, I’ve also worked through the rough spots of my illness.  In this case, I’m teaching online Creative Writing at Gotham Writers’ Workshop in New York.  My surgery to remove the angiosarcoma came right at the last two weeks of a six-week term.  I had surgery on June 10, 2016, and the term ended June 28.  While I was in the hospital for a two-night stay, I felt absolutely terrible.  I texted my boss and told him there was no way I was going to be able to complete the class.  He was flexible and told me he would get a replacement for me. 

But a couple days later, I was feeling well enough that I knew I could finish the class.

So I got home from the hospital and went immediately to the computer, checking in with my students and reviewing their work.

I had told the students what was going on, so they knew I was in a bit of a vulnerable state.  But they were so supportive.  They sent me “good vibes,” prayers and well wishes.  Staying on the job provided me with a wonderful support system that gave me encouragement, sympathy and strength.

Work was a God-send.  For the last two weeks, I’ve been critiquing stories and essays and guiding a group of sixteen young writers in the ways of first drafts, beginnings, middles, conclusions, grammar and revisions, among other things.  Working has truly kept my mind off my immense wound pain and overall weakness from the surgery.

Of course, working during this second occurrence of cancer was rather easy for me because I was working from home.  I didn’t have to get dressed and go into an office and contend with an 8-hour day.

You may have to work outside of the home.  This can and will be difficult, but I suggest that if there is any way possible that you can do it, do it.

Cancer makes us feel abnormal.  It is dancing with the enemy.

Working makes us feel normal.  It’s what we do.

DON’T OVERDO IT

By Laura Yeager

I am blessed with great friends.  When I had cancer the first time, several of them wanted to help me out by bringing in home-cooked meals.  Many complete dinners arrived in cardboard boxes—meat, potatoes, vegetables, dessert.  My friends took great care in preparing the food.  One dear friend included new cloth napkins and placemats with the meal.  I felt completely spoiled.

This time around with cancer, it was no different.  My friends wanted to do something for us, and food is the universal symbol of love.

Two friends in particular, Mary and Theresa, called shortly after my cancer surgery and told me they wanted to bring us dinner.  Theresa would bring a chicken and rice casserole and a fruit salad, and Mary would bring a green salad and brownies.

We set the date on Friday, a week after my surgery.  As you can imagine, I wasn’t feeling great, so a couple days later, I called Theresa and told her that I just wanted to accept the food at the door and that we could visit another time when I was feeling better.  I was a little grouchy; I told her I would not be serving them coffee.

Wednesday rolled around, and I was feeling better.  I felt kind of guilty that I’d put them off, so I called Theresa and told her that I wanted to invite them in when they came.  At that point, I sincerely wanted to see them.  I needed company.

Of course, my house was a total disaster.  It wasn’t dirty, just cluttered.  I couldn’t have them see the mess, so I picked up the upstairs of the house.  The task was exhausting.

They arrived at 2:00 with a big cardboard box of food.  I refrigerated the perishables.

We sat down at the kitchen table and had some drinks.  They were amazed at how “good” I seemed so recently after major surgery.

We talked and laughed.

They stayed for about an hour.

The food was greatly appreciated.  It was so nice to be able to pop the casserole in the oven and have hot, warm comfort food.  And the salad was made with care--lots of fresh veggies and some delicious parmesan cheese and homemade croutons.  We devoured the brownies.  We ate the fruit salad for breakfast.

For the next few days, I continued to zip around, trying to keep up my normal pace, when I should have been resting on the couch.

It’s a week later and, I wish I hadn’t overdone it in those early days of my recovery.  I’m suffering for it now.

I’m in tremendous pain, and I couldn’t clean my upstairs if someone gave me a million dollars.

The lesson here?  After cancer surgery or during cancer treatment, your friends will try to help.  Let them help, but don’t overdo it.  And don’t clean up for them.

It’s not worth it.

Your friends will love you just the same if your digs are a little messy.

Take advantage of your recovery time.

Sleep, watch television, read.

Repeat.

My Star Wars Utility Belt

By Laura Yeager

Just got out of the hospital with another cancer surgery.  Long story short, the radiation of five years ago gave me cancer in my right breast.  The cancer came back!  Bummer.  That which was meant to heal me made me sick again.  I was a survivor.  What am I now?

But I have to sing praises to one of the medical technicians on the fifth floor at Akron General Medical Center.  He was about 25, way over six feet, gorgeous.  He looked like a movie star.  I wish I knew his name.

I’m 5’2”, 180 pounds, dumpy, 53, very middle-aged.  And I’d just had my right breast cut off and muscle and skin from my back sewn in its place.  I wasn’t feeling beautiful.

I was trying to put on my drainage bulb belt.  For those of you who don’t know what that is, after you have a mastectomy (or any major surgery), they sew tubes into the wounds and stick bulbs on the ends of said tubes.  The drainage from the wounds drips into the plastic tubes and into the bulbs.  Then, the bulbs have to be emptied regularly, and the fluid has to be measured.

Well, I was trying to get this Velcro-connected belt around my waist.  I was clad in only, white, granny underpants.  Feeling a bit frustrated, I pressed the nurse’s call button.

Whom should appear at the door but the gorgeous movie star aid.  I went with it, didn’t send him away, acted like nothing was out of the ordinary.

So I’m standing there exposed, and I say, “Can you help me?”

And lo and behold, he walks towards me.  “Yes.”

“I’m trying to get this drainage bulb belt on right.”

So he comes over and helps me get the belt around my waist.  Then, he inserts a Velcro piece into the tag in the first bulb.  And then, he inserts another Velcro piece into the tag of the 2^nd bulb.  (I had a bulb connected to my chest and one attached to my back.)

And then he says something brilliant.  “That looks just like a Star Wars Utility Belt.”

And he made me laugh.

I’m not sure if it was his stock line to make old ladies feel at ease or if he just came up with it on the spur of the moment.  In any case, it was funny.

The child was a born caregiver.

There’s nothing like a good joke no matter what the setting or circumstances.

A good joke can cut through a lot of humiliation.

That kid didn’t know it, but I would remember him as one of the highlights of my hospital stay.  Right after the beautiful flowers from my best friend, Jan.