By Pat Durmon
If you feel something is not quite right, trust that you know your body. Become proactive.
I don’t like mammograms.
I mean that. No fun, and you have to put your pride away, wear no deodorant, strip from the waist up, and submit breasts to an ice-cold machine for mammo-squeezes. So why do I push myself to do this year after year? I want the weight of worry lifted off my mind.
In March 2011, I did my monthly self-check, and I found a lump. I was in shock, not believing it, not wanting it to be true. Surprisingly, I slept that night. I called my family doctor’s office the next morning, and the wheels started turning: a mammogram, an ultra-sound, a needle biopsy. My surgeon said, “No positive confirmation, but it looks suspicious.” The next step was to biopsy the tissue. Then the results were certain: yes, I had breast cancer.
Cancer runs in my family: a grandmother, a sister, a brother, two nieces. One niece is a breast cancer survivor. Even though I knew this, I was not on guard. I had not practiced due diligence every month with the self-exam, I had not counted how many months since my last mammogram. I had not marked it on the calendar. Instead, I smiled and said, “Oh, I forgot. I’m just not a detail person. I guess I need a secretary.”
My wake-up call was when my surgeon said, “We need to remove the breast and some lymph nodes. It’s Stage III and HER2, an aggressive type of cancer.” Then it hit me: he was talking about life and death here. My husband and I would walk a new walk, a journey that would take months and months. My mind finally had a grasp of reality. I would go through what many women had gone through: chemo, hair loss, surgery, loss of breast, grief, more chemo, feelings of nausea, radiation, more chemo, a drug called Herceptin.
I was concerned about my adult sons, how they would handle the diagnosis and treatment. I wanted them to know that we’d probably caught it in time, that sometimes there’s life after cancer, that we were not dilly-dallying about treatment. I had wonderful support from my family, neighbors, friends, church, Peitz Cancer House, and a fine oncology team at Baxter Medical Regional Center in Mountain Home.
I am a retired mental health counselor and an active poet who has authored two books. I was in no position to help others find their way, and I could not think to write. I was grounded, but it was spring and the beauty of the Ozarks was knocking at every window, at every door. I invited every flower and bird to come and give me comfort, to become my teacher: they bow, lift their heads, praise their Maker, sing, wait, accept things as they come, forgive and trust life to be good. They are not anxious.
A friend said, “Just another bump in the road. . . . there’s light at the end of this tunnel, and it’s not a train!” She was right, and that was what I needed to hear when I was tired, so tired that I couldn’t pray. I rested, knowing I was being lifted up by the bubbling prayers of others.
This was a scary time, and treatment was not a breeze. In fact, it rocked my world, and I could not risk being around random germs at church or with grandchildren with runny noses. How I missed my people.
When I was at the end of my final round of chemo, it was Thanksgiving. My heart was full, and we were brimming over with love, gratitude, and thanksgiving. It was a holy time.
The last two years of my life have been about writing a book, and learning how to live with a prosthesis and shoulder pain. By the time you read this, I will have had reconstructive surgery to relieve those pains. I am 70 years old but in pretty good health. Still, it seems amazing that such an option exists for me: no silicon, just me. I am ready.
My final words: if you feel something is not quite right, trust that you know your body. Become proactive. Go to the doctor, get a mammogram, schedule the next mammogram 12 months ahead, and do those monthly breast exams. M! October/November 2014
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