Gray on gray, the tumor filled the ultrasound screen. The interloper had enmeshed itself in my breast, slithering between my cells to expand its grasp on my body, on my life.
“A cyst has defined edges,” the radiologist said.
Not like this.
Cancer. Me. Cancer.
I donned the shroud of patient and, after weeks of worry, biopsies and MRIs, underwent a lumpectomy. My medical oncologist advised chemotherapy, but lacked evidence of its benefit for my situation. I reluctantly agreed, but stopped after the first infusion, concerned about permanent neuropathy. I finished treatment with seven weeks of radiation, absorbing the daily dose over lunchtime. Eventually my hair grew back and life went on.
I’m dubbed a cancer survivor.
Survivor? Hell, I don’t know the meaning.
My friend, Kathy, exists in a world filled with PET scans and CA125 tests. Multiple rounds of chemotherapy have eaten away at her organs—collateral damage in the quest to kill the relentless predator that invades her body. Fragile kidneys, neuropathy-torched feet and constant exhaustion task her every waking moment.
I feel like a Roman at the Colosseum as I watch Kathy in battle. A gladiator in the arena, with doctors and nurses offering her weapons, my friend fights alone. She advances, slashing at the evil, pushing it into retreat for a few months, but the disease finds a vulnerable spot and attacks again. I pray and offer support, the limitations of my role as a spectator.
For me, cancer has been a hiccup in my life—a pit stop in which I needed to “get fixed” before I roared back into the race. I grouse about lousy drivers, too much work and crappy weather. Cancer hasn’t forced me to evaluate my life, to change it. I chew up every day and expect there to be a fresh one tomorrow. I make plans without wondering if I’ll live long enough to see them through.
Days like today, when Kathy tells me another growth requires surgery or chemo, I realize how lucky I am, and understand not the meaning of survivor, but of survivor’s guilt.
View from my backyard 
June 1, 2014 at 12:50 am
I’ve just been diagnosed with stage III invasive lobular carcinoma. Your stories give me hope. Thank you.
June 1, 2014 at 2:21 am
I’m so sorry! It’s such a shock, isn’t it? One day you’re fine, planning your future, and the next you are a cancer patient. All control of your future drops into the hands of strangers who cite statistics and rattle off options. You become a prisoner of your body. You wonder how long you will live.
I’m sure friends have told you tales about people who have survived difficult bouts of cancer. Story after story of miraculous recoveries. I believe everyone’s existence on earth is unique. You’ve been sent down a path that no one else has trod. Like the rest of us, you could live another day, year, or half century. This diagnosis could be merely a speed bump.
Right now, take each moment as it comes. Cry when you need to, yell and scream when the mood hits. But also appreciate the beauty and wonder of the world around you. And indulge! Take good care of yourself, you deserve it!
Your friends and family don’t know what to do. They want to help, but feel useless. Give them jobs and errands that make your life easier, lean on them. Also, take someone along with you to your appointments to record the details. There will be a lot of information coming at you continually for a few months.
I’m here, anytime, if you want to talk, and I’ll add you to our prayer chain. We have a serious group of prayer warriors!
Take it a day at a time.