Chicken Soup for the Breast Cancer Survivor's Soul, Page 2

  Well, I did not want to go there, so I said something like, “John, you know that eventually everything dies.”

  He looked at me as if I were a total idiot and replied, “I know that, Mommy. What I mean is, if they don’t get the sickness out of your body in time, will you die sooner?”

  Then it hit me: It wasn’t about whether I died sooner— or later—but that I really lived while I was here.

  John’s question made me realize that there’s more than one way to die. And that day I decided that I didn’t want to die before my time—I didn’t want to die sooner— because I was living in fear. That day, I saw that I might not be able to control whether or not I recovered from breast cancer or its treatment, but I could control how I spent the time I had left, regardless of whether it was long or short.

  My son helped me break the cycle of fear in which I had been trapped. His search for understanding led me to my own understanding—and that changed my life. You see, whether I die sooner or later, I’ve got a whole bunch of moments left to live. And I plan on living every one of them—right now.

  Lori Misicka

  Family

  The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering the attitude of his mind.

  William James

  “Grandpa, do you hurt?”

  “Grandpa, do you want something to eat or drink?”

  “Do you want a pillow to sit on so you’re comfortable?”

  “Where does it hurt, Grandpa?”

  I have been a male breast-cancer survivor for nine years. Many people don’t realize that men can contract it. When I was diagnosed and people found out I had cancer, most assumed it was some other form—lung, liver or skin.

  I received support from many people: my wife, children, church family, friends and coworkers. The support of the grandchildren was especially wonderful to observe. All our children live at least one day’s drive away, so I didn’t see them often until I had begun treatment and lost all my hair. I continued to work through out my treatment, so I was able to visit our children and grandchildren as I traveled to their cities.

  One of our sons and his family did come to visit us after I had started chemotherapy and was bald. His son, about three, wanted me to play with him. As we played with the small cars and trucks, he would reach over and remove the baseball cap that I wore and rub my bald head, then replace the hat and continue playing. I don’t know why, and he didn’t say anything, but maybe it was his way of soothing a sick Grandpa.

  I also visited our other children and grandchildren on a business trip to their cities. Before I arrived, I called the parents and told them they should probably talk to the children before I got there and tell them I was now bald and why. It happened the same way with each family: When I arrived, we would sit and talk about normal family things, but not sickness. However, the minute that both parents were out of the room, the grandchildren asked considerate questions. If a parent returned, the conversation returned to school, birthdays or Grandma. I think children are the best examples of caring and support. They aren’t afraid of asking questions or of being embarrassed by questions that an adult may hesitate to ask.

  I think the best way to show concern and support for a cancer patient or survivor is to ask the question that’s on your mind and offer help or assistance. It is the responsibility of the survivor to be open and willing to talk about the illness—then others will be more comfortable talking honestly with you.

  I receivedmuch support from many people during my treatment and recovery, and it meant a lot to my wife and our family to see the concern that people have for each other. I find that many cancer patients don’t have anyone to talk to, and they welcome conversation about what they are going through or will soon have to face. Our grandchildren showed me the true sincerity that children have, and we should all model that simplicity when placed in situations of concern for others.

  Lowell Gere

  You’ll Never Feel So Loved

  Where there is great love, there are always miracles.

  Willa Cather

  A few days after hearing the devastating news that the shadow on the mammogram was indeed cancer, I received a call I’ll never forget from an aunt who was a breast-cancer survivor. The only part of the conversation I remember was one simple line: “You’ll never feel so loved.” At the time I had no clue what that could mean, but I thanked her for calling and began the journey that every cancer patient goes through.

  I began to understand the power of these five little words a few days after my aunt’s call, when I telephoned my daughter about the diagnosis and the upcoming surgery. Her first words were simple and direct: “I’m on my way!” Not, “What can I do?” Or, “I’ll try to come,” or even “Do you want me to come?” but simply, “I’m on my way!” With the support and encouragement from her husband, my daughter was with me until I no longer needed her help. I felt so loved.

  Later that same day, with only twenty minutes’ notice, a friend volunteered to meet my husband and me at the doctor’s office to be the extra ears and note taker. Quietly, in the background, she was the one who held it together when my husband left the room (sick), and I began crying. She asked all the right questions and later went over the facts one by one, helping us comprehend all that was happening. What a gift! I knew she cared about us, and I felt so loved.

  In spite of all the frightening, horrific things that were taking place, I began to understand how the love of God and others would carry me through, and I knew I would be able to conquer this thing called cancer. The love was manifested in so many ways: cards, calls, prayers, meals and sometimes just one little sentence would carry me through a difficult day.

  I remember my husband holding me in his arms, reading from a book given to me from a coworker of his, also a breast-cancer survivor, who was sure we would both enjoy reading it. I was too tired, so he read aloud every night, and we laughed and cried together. I not only felt his love, but also was touched by the fact that someone I had never met cared enough to think of me.

  I had retired the year before my diagnosis, and one day a former coworker of mine stopped by with a basket full of thoughtful gifts from friends at the office: a warm hat to cover my thinning hair, inspirational books to lift my spirits, aromatherapy candles and bubble bath to soothe my body, and much more. They cared enough to remember me, and I felt so loved!

  In times of need, everyone knows that family will be there for you, but I was overwhelmed by the way my immediate and extended family came through. Parents, sisters and in-laws joined together to provide support and encouragement in so many wonderful ways. They were with me every step of the way. In fact, my sister was there when I had my last chemotherapy session, and a niece planned a big surprise party to celebrate the end of my treatments!

  A daughter-in-law, without being asked, came and cleaned our whole house; our sons provided hugs, teasing and comforting words; neighbors and friends brought meals. The prayers, flowers, calls and cards of countless others were all given in the name of love. These are the things I still remember today because they carried me through a difficult time, and I am filled with gratitude.

  As I look back, I have experienced what my aunt meant when she said, “You’ll never feel so loved.” In great part because of this love I am a cancer survivor. Yes, the treatments and advice of wonderful doctors and the prayers of many helped save my life, but I also believe that if the soul is being fed, the body will heal.

  If you are going through a journey like mine, look for all the love that is being sent your way, for you will be comforted and treasured. Believe me, you’ll never feel so loved!

  Sharon Bomgaars

  Food Is Love

  Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before how infinitely rich and beautiful life is.

  Isak Dinesen

  Gasping for breath, as though a vacuum had suddenly sucked the air from the room, I heard the doctor tell my sister, “Your
margins were not clear” from the lumpectomy they had performed earlier that week. The doctor wanted to cut more. “I feel the lymph glands may be involved, and the cancer cells in the lump are a fast-growing variety of breast cancer.”

  My sister Mary (called Meemee), her husband and I went into the waiting room at the doctor’s office to schedule the return surgery. I was fighting to keep back the tears, not wanting to add to the misery already in the room. Sweeping the two of them into a spontaneous group hug, we rocked together in the waiting room while the nurses and staff looked on in sympathy and some embarrassment. My stomach clenched into a completely new and unexpected knot. My perfect sister—the one who was always strong and capable, the one I’d always turned to for my own comfort and support, the one who was never sick or dejected—was suddenly badly hurt. Cancer! Life-threatening, terrifying cancer! Not my sister! Through no fault of her own, she was really sick. My thoughts were jumbled. What can I do? I have to do something. I have to make her well! She can’t be sick, and she certainly can’t die! I have to do something. It became a mantra of sorts—my internal litany: Do something, do something to heal Meemee!

  So I got to work. Ever since I was allowed in the kitchen as a child, I’ve shown my love for the people I care about through cooking. My signature cookies, the many meals I’ve prepared through the years, are the stuff of legend in our family. It’s my role in our very close family, and one I don’t take lightly. So, faced with the awesome task I’d set myself, I did research into the effects of food on healing, particularly healing from the effects of chemotherapy and radiation on the body. I learned about the cancer-fighting properties in phytochemicals, substances found in fruits and vegetables that work in a variety of ways to build the immune system and destroy carcinogens in our bodies. The ten most phyto-chemical-rich foods known are cruciferous vegetables like broccoli, beans (especially soybeans), berries and cherries, onions and garlic, carotenoid-rich vegetables like carrots and sweet potatoes, fish, tomatoes, mushrooms, all nuts and seeds (especially flax seeds), and green tea. I spent long hours investigating recipes that featured these super foods but would also prove easy on a chemo- and radiation-damaged constitution.

  My goal was to fill my sister’s freezer with a big variety of healthy, microwavable meals and treats to tempt her during the coming ordeal of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. The recipes I’d chosen included butternut squash and apple soup, roasted carrot and onion soup, and an African chicken with peanut butter and sweet potatoes. Meemee happily perched on the kitchen bar stool, reminded me of a baby bird as she willingly opened her mouth to be fed tastes of the various dishes I made for her approval.

  Soon, all the ingredients had merged and disappeared into the many dishes I’d prepared. The freezer was neatly stacked with identical little microwave containers. I’d even made special Popsicles for the really bad days, having read they help the nausea and mouth problems. I flew home across the Pacific, feeling strong and capable, like I’d made a difference, hoping that the next months would be easy for my sister.

  Halfway through the chemo treatments, The months I’ve been gone have not been easy. My sister’s hair was gone, and she was battling some really horrible skin and body reactions to the chemo. I cooked some more—it was still the only thing I knew to do. My sister was so brave; she didn’t complain even when we knew she was fighting the dizziness and scary pain. The side-effects of chemo are random and insidious and I hated what they were doing to her. I hated that I couldn’t make the pain and weirdness go away. I cooked some more.

  Finally, the ordeal was over. Nearly all the bad side effects we were warned of had occurred, but the cancer was gone, completely gone! All the food I made for my sister was gone now, too. Cooked with love, eaten with love, I can’t believe it made a difference, and I’m just so happy she’s all right. Now, I understand that the cancer may come back, but I’m sure in my heart that it won’t. Every day Meemee is looking more like herself. Her hair has grown back; her body is recovering its shape; she’s never looked more beautiful. She’s also never been happier. There’s nothing like almost losing your life to learn to appreciate each day.

  Through her experience, I, too, am living every day with more joy and meaning. Our whole family has finally let loose the collective breaths we’ve held for the past year. Every shared event is more appreciated now, as we realize how lucky we are to be together and relatively well. And I’m cooking with even more passion and commitment nowadays, convinced that healthy food will help keep my family cancer-free. There is one ingredient that can’t be measured: love.

  Below is a recipe that really made a difference for Meemee during the worst days after chemotherapy. The fruit and tofu provide both phytochemicals and much-needed protein and liquids, while the cool Popsicle soothed her sore mouth and settled her stomach.

  Chemo Popsicles

  Fresh-squeezed orange juice, one 8-ounce glass Frozen mangoes, ¼ package, or 1 cup frozen berries ¼ square tofu, medium firmness

  One banana

  You can add passionfruit juice or other fruit juices to taste.

  Put all ingredients into a blender. Blend to liquefy. Add more juice if it’s too thick—it should be the thickness of a juice smoothie. Pour blended mixture into Tupperware or plastic Popsicle molds and freeze.

  Barbara Curtis

  All You Need Is Love

  Love is a fruit in season at all times.

  Mother Teresa

  When people ask me, “How did you survive cancer?” I don’t have to think twice. Bottom line? It was love—the love of God, as well as my patient, funny, rock-solid husband, Fred.

  Poor Freddie never knew from one day to the next what kind of weird things stress was going to bring out in me, especially during those early weeks. But he hung in there because he loves me. I’ll give you a “for instance.”

  One morning, I announced to my husband, “Hey, Freddie, I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out why I got breast cancer!”

  He has learned by now to just say, “Okay,” when I make an announcement like this. This time, he looked a little worried, but said, “Okay. . . .”

  This is one of the reasons I love the guy so much. As far as I’m concerned, after twenty years with me, he’s eligible for sainthood. I can’t for the life of me figure out what I ever did to deserve him. Or, for that matter, what the poor guy ever did to deserve me! See, before I met Fred, I hadn’t so much fallen in love as I’d stepped in it.

  With the exception of my first love, Billy, in the sixth grade, and a few sweet but doomed relationships over the next thirteen years, my track record consisted mostly of men who thought I’d placed this ad in the personals: “Doormat seeking man to support. Only abusive, married, alcoholic, drug-addicted parolees need apply.”

  By the time Fred came along, I was a bitter twenty-six-year-old woman who believed there was nothing a man could do for me that a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates and an electric blanket couldn’t do as well.

  We met in Hawaii. I was vacationing; he was born and raised there.

  Somewhere in my girlhood daydreams, I’d always pictured the man I’d end up happily married to some day. He’d be five to ten years older than me, six foot tall or better, have dark hair, and probably be a lawyer or doctor.

  This just proves what I’ve always believed: God has a sense of humor. Freddie is six years younger than me, five foot six (to my five foot eight), has blond hair and was a struggling student (in engineering, not medical or law school) when I met him. In addition to all that, we were as different as oil and vinegar.

  I knew it would never work. He was cuter than that proverbial bug’s ear, smart, funny and willing to love me in spite of my rotten attitude, but it just wouldn’t work. I kept telling him that, but he insisted it would and followed me home to Oregon. It took two years for me to figure out that oil and vinegar, while totally different, make a great salad dressing—something that clever Freddie had been trying to tell me all along. Finally realizin
g that I was in love with him was like seeing him through a clean pair of glasses.

  You see, Freddie is a deep-rooted tree . . . and I’m a hummingbird flitting high overhead. He needs my bright colors and my outlook of the world . . . and I need the safety of his branches, the nurturing warmth of his leaves.

  We got married and lived hopefully ever after.

  So, as I was saying, my announcement of, “I think I’ve figured out why I got cancer!” was met with a wary, “Okay.”

  “It’s my own fault, most likely.”

  He nodded, looking trapped.

  “See, it all happened when I started to develop back in the sixth grade,” I said. “Actually, it may even be my mother’s fault.”

  “Your mother’s fault?”

  “She never told me about the development business, you know. I mean . . . how exactly the whole boob thing was going to come about,” I said, frowning. “One day I woke up and there it was.”

  “There what was?”

  “A lump!”

  Fred looked confused, but waited to see where this was going.

  “Yeah. One side had a lump. So my first thought was, Oh, terrific, I have cancer! But after the initial panic, I figured that maybe if I could flatten it back out, I’d be okay.”

  “Flatten it out?” My husband’s mouth dropped open far enough to catch flies.

  “Well, yeah! So I spent the next month or so pounding on it, mashing it against my desk at school—which, I wanna tell ya, got to be pretty darned painful after awhile—in the hopes that it would just give up and go away.”

  “You didn’t!” Fred groaned, grimacing at the mental picture.

  “Yup, I did. But not only didn’t it go away, about the time when I’d convinced myself that it was a slow-growing kind of cancer and that maybe I could even live into my teens . . . it happened.”