Even now, thinking about it, I feel a familiar unsettling of my stomach and shortness of breath. Why? It’s quite simple – fear. Thinking back to that time in my life makes me scared. And overwhelmingly sad. Two emotions I’m not programmed to deal with so avoid when possible. From the moment I found a lump in my left breast at age 33, I’ve avoided those two emotions. As I watched the eyes of my friends well with tears at the news I had breast cancer, I’d make a joke to make them laugh so they too wouldn’t feel sad. Or scared. Seven years on I’m still making jokes, resolute in my belief that there are far sadder stories than mine out there.
God knows we see such stories every day in the news. Humour and gratitude have been, and will always be, my strongest weapons against cancer. I’ll never forget the night I was diagnosed – October 9, 2008. Given the effects of baby brain, chemo brain and now early menopause, I consider remembering any dates to be quite an achievement! Thinking back to that time I feel nauseous and light-headed – the body’s normal reaction to fear.
Ironically, I wasn’t scared for my own life when I sat in my car after the doctor delivered the news. I was scared for my husband and three children, then aged just five, three and one. How would this affect them? Strangely, I also felt a sense of relief, that it was me and not one of them. I could handle the disease doing its worst to me, but I couldn’t bear even the thought of them having it. I still can’t.
That relief became gratitude – I was thankful that the people I loved most dearly were healthy and safe. That gratitude has stayed with me to this day. But the reality of me having cancer was something we all had to live with. The week after diagnosis I underwent a lumpectomy, which to me was a good thing. I couldn’t wait to be rid of the lump. In my mind, once that was gone, all would be back to normal. I was wrong. That 7mm lump was a nasty bastard. The cancer had spread to my lymph nodes, and a couple of other tumours had joined the party, meaning I would need a mastectomy to achieve the clearance needed to safeguard my survival.
As I sat across from my surgeon who delivered the news, my shock must have been obvious. But when his eyes looked at my barely A-cup sized breasts before saying “Really Deb, all we’re doing is removing a nipple” I couldn’t help but laugh. We weren’t talking about Pamela Anderson-esque breasts. Vanity is not part of my makeup, so losing one of my girls wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.
Next stop was an oncologist, who gave me the news I’d been dreading. I would need chemotherapy. This saw me crying hysterically in the elevator on the way down from his office. In my mind, needing chemotherapy meant I really did have cancer. And that scared the hell out of me. When I walked in the front door and saw my babies, I could barely hold it together. I knew we were all in this for the long haul, and the guilt, sadness and fear were overwhelming. I liken it to being like a fighter in the boxing ring – you get hit over and over but until that final knockout you just keep getting back up.
My firefighter husband Paul still had to work, and the children had to be cared for. Lunches had to be made. Those were the certainties in life that kept me going. Chemo ravaged me physically, but emotionally I was ok. After chemo came radiation which, despite literally being the light at the end of the tunnel, I found really challenging. Strapped to the bed like Jesus to the cross, naked from the waist up, with male radiologists drawing on my chest before being microwaved every day for 25 days was confronting. But like all things, it came to an end.
I wish I could say my cancer ‘journey’ finished there (and yes, l too hate that word). Being a survivor makes you part of a special community (whether you want it to, or not). Mother’s Day Classic, held each year on Mother’s Day all around Australia to raise money for breast cancer research and as a public show of support to all who are dealing with the disease, is a great expression of that community.
Yet living on the Gold Coast in 2008, within that community there wasn’t a support group for women under 40 affected by the disease. There were lovely older ladies in support groups, but none who were confronting the issues of parenting young kids while undergoing treatment, or reproductive and early menopause issues. I formed Sassy Survivors so we could share our stories and enjoy knowing we were not alone in our journeys. Sassy Survivors has a real sense of community and camaraderie, and in past years we’ve won the Mother’s Day Classic trophy for largest community team at the Gold Coast event.
My latest project within this community developing an App, Cancer Confidant, to let people take control of their cancer treatment. I’m really proud of the App – it’s something I wish I’d had when undergoing treatment. It records every aspect of your cancer experience – appointments, surgeries, medications, treatments, side-effects and emotions. Keeping an accurate record is hard when you can feel overwhelmed by everything that is happening in and around your body. The App helps put the focus on recovering, not on remembering medical details.
Fortunately, I’ve stayed cancer free – but 2012 was the first year I didn’t have to have surgery of any kind. The first year I didn’t have to go to hospital. The first year I could hug my kids every single day. That was the best year. Every year that I’m around to love my husband and children, to love my life, is the best year. My gratitude for that is far stronger than my fear of what may be. I make a conscious decision every day to make sure of it.
I know this Mother’s Day, at the Mother’s Day Classic, that gratitude will remain strong.
Mother’s Day Classic will be held in more than 100 locations, from capital cities to remote towns, all around Australia, on Sunday May 8. Register or donate here
