Reasons to Be Thankful For Breast Cancer: Perspective

My walk after work last night seemed like an easy one. As I made my way from DC to Arlington, I was somewhat amazed that an almost six-mile walk passed by effortlessly. To be sure, some of that had to do with the lower-than-usual humidity and still being on a "walker's high" from the 25 miles I covered over the weekend.

I think more of it, however, has to do with the fact that my perspective has shifted over the past several weeks. These evening walks home after work, which used to be a once-a-week occurrence, if that, have become an almost daily standard. Soon, the 14-mile walks will become normal, and the 20-mile weekend walks will become the new adventure.

That's how perspective works--taking on new challenges makes those that came earlier seem easier. Witnessing the difficulty of others makes you realize how good you've really got it. With this in mind during yesterday's walk, I started thinking about some of the events in my life that have taught me the most about perspective.

When I was six, Jennifer, a little girl who lived down the street in our Toronto neighborhood, had a birthday party. Toward the end of the festivities, her mom pulled out a big bag, filled with all sorts of fun party favors. We each took our turn, closing our eyes, reaching into the bag, and pulling out a treat. The three kids who went before me each pulled out a Smurf. I absolutely LOVED Smurfs back then--I thought they were so cute and fun, and I had quite the collection. I was SO excited to have a brand new Smurf. So, I closed my eyes, reached in my hand, and pulled out . . .a sheet of rainbow-colored star stickers? What? Where was my Smurf? I was quite upset. I'm sure I may have even been a brat about the whole thing.

After the party ended, Dad picked me up, and we went to the Toronto Hospital for Sick Children, where my sister had been living for the past couple of weeks. Linda had just turned two, and like many babies with Down Syndrome, she was born with a heart condition that required surgery at a young age. The surgery had been a success, but the recovery was long, and, I'm sure, painful and scary.

On that sunny Saturday in early May, traffic was light, and we got to the hospital just about 10 minutes after Dad picked me up. We parked the car and went up to the floor where Linda and Mom were staying. As we waited for them, I realized that I was still clutching that stupid sheet of rainbow star stickers, which was now crumpled in my hand. There was a trashcan nearby, and still wallowing in my Smurf-less self-pity, I decided to just get rid of the annoying stickers once and for all.

But before I could do that, Mom walked into the waiting room holding my teeny, adorable, baby sister. And when Linda saw me, her face lit up. The last time I'd seen her, just a couple of days earlier, she still looked so sick, so pale, so much in pain. But on this day, she was healthy and strong and so pretty in the little dress she was wearing. Without even thinking about it, I reached down and took a green star off my sheet of stickers. (This was 1980, when green had replaced pink and purple as my favorites and before blue became the color I loved best.) I stuck the sticker right in the middle of Linda's forehead, as if to say, "You've won! You're a star. You're healthy now, and you're going to be okay." Linda let out a laugh of pure joy, and I felt a smile break out on my face--it was one of those smiles that made my cheeks hurt, it was so huge.

I had been so upset earlier to get the sheet of stickers, when what I really wanted was a Smurf. But seeing the happiness on Linda's face when I gave her that sticker turned my thinking upside down. This was not the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, that my little sister--who is supposed to learn from me--taught me a lesson about the important things in life. Looking at the situation through her eyes shifted my perspective. Although it may seem a minor event now, looking back on it through the prism of the many years that have passed since then, I often think of that green star sticker and am grateful to Linda for refocusing my priorities on that day and always.

Just as that episode serves as a touchstone, Mom's experience with breast cancer--and my response to it--serve as important barometers in my life. As I've mentioned before, and as you would well expect, I will never forget how scared I felt when Mom told me she had been diagnosed. Even more than the fear, I remember the strange physical sensation that filled me as I heard that news. I held so tight to the phone as I clutched it to my ear that my fingernails literally cut into my palm. I felt a chill go through my body, starting from the top of my head, and flowing all the way through me, almost as if someone had cracked an ice cold egg over me.

Hearing that Mom had breast cancer, yet not knowing anything other than that, was terrifying to me. How serious was it? How far had it spread? Had it moved into her lymph nodes? Would she need radiation? Would she need chemotherapy? Would she be okay?

Okay was always a sort of euphemism for me. It represented the fears that were buried in the deepest and most secret places of my brain. It represented the thoughts that I would never dare utter to myself, let alone to others. Most of the time, I did believe that Mom would be okay. But every so often, especially in the time of day I call the "worrying time," right before I fell asleep at night, I would consider the alternative. And I couldn't stand it. I felt uncomfortable in my skin, I felt I couldn't breathe, I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest.

In the end, of course, thanks to early detection, fantastic doctors, and admirable strength of spirit, Mom triumphed over this horrible disease. I would be lying, though, if I said that I don't still wonder if Mom will always be okay. Once breast cancer touches your life, I think that you are never completely free of fear and uncertainty.

Moving forward in spite of that fear and uncertainty, knowing that we are progressing ever nearer to the day when we may begin to dance--that's perspective. More than anything that has occurred in my life so far, watching Mom deal with breast cancer has given me the ability to see challenges, problems, and difficulties for what they are. When things seem upsetting or frustrating to me, I look back to that day when Mom told me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Immediately, everything shifts into focus, and I am reminded once again that difficult circumstances are never usually as bad as they seem at first. And so that is another reason I am thankful for breast cancer, as much as I hate the disease. Breast cancer, and Mom's experience with it, give me perspective, and for that, I am grateful.