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 