Dear Self of 3 Years Ago with Breast Cancer ...

Part way through treatment - March 2009.

Someone in my life who I care about deeply was diagnosed with breast cancer a few weeks ago. I’ve been reflecting on what I’d say if I could talk to myself almost three and a half years ago when I was where she is now. Here’s what I’d tell myself.

1.            You will live (well not forever or anything; but you know, for quite a while yet).

Quite an important one that. And it’s good to know that’s it’s true for most women who have breast cancer.

2.            The pain and hypersensitivity in your arm caused by the removal of your lymph nodes will get better.

Once I finished chemo and was allowed to go to the pool again I found swimming helped my arm even though I couldn’t straighten it properly (my stroke was so lop-sided that two complete strangers offered me swimming advice. I punched them in the nose with my good arm and asked how they liked THAT stroke. Well in my head I did). 

After one swim I was trying to get my reasonably tight bikini crop top off. But because my arm wasn't working properly, the top came part way off and there it stuck over my face. I couldn’t pull it up or down. The warmth of the pool building kicked off one of my Tamoxifen-side-effect-hot-flushes. So there I was—blinded and slightly suffocated by the crop top stretched across my face, arms stuck in the air, sweating so profusely I felt a little faint and unable to do anything about it. I thought about going for help but I’d have been displaying my new breast (and my old one of course) to all the pool goers, which wasn’t something I thought any of us should have to deal with. Plus I couldn’t see to find the door handle. I thought I was going to burst into tears, but surprised myself by laughing instead. I’m not sure how I managed to ever get that top off but I think the convulsions from the laughter helped. It took me a good 10 minutes to break free. 

After that I started doing my arm exercises religiously and swimming as much as possible because both things really helped.

3.            The treatment isn’t as bad as you think it will be.

About the time I was diagnosed I read about a study looking into how happy people two groups of people in Britain thought they would be in six months’ time. One group had been made redundant; the other had won money in the lottery. I can’t find the study online now, but I remember the redundant workers overestimated how unhappy they would be and the lottery winners overestimated how happy they would be. At the end of the six months many of the redundant workers were happier than the lottery winners.  Humans it seems, are adept at adapting to both good and bad things. It all evens out in the end.

My treatment wasn’t a walk in the park. But surgery, chemo, radiotherapy, Herceptin and hormone treatment - none of them were anywhere near as bad as my vivid imagination dreamed they would be. (Although I have to say that I still believe if I won the lottery this week I’d be happier in six months’ time.)

4.            Accept you will spend a large amount of time reassuring others and surround yourself with positive people.

The fact I ended up reassuring others always confounded my husband. “They should be reassuring you,” he would say. But whenever I talk to someone who has had cancer about this, they always give a chuckle of recognition. It’s just what happens. When people I love had cancer I wanted reassurance they were doing okay. When I had it myself it was easier because I knew I was coping and when I saw the worried looks on people’s faces I wanted to tell them I was all right. 

But don’t waste your energy on negative people. If you encounter anyone who is negative, tell them you can’t deal with their negativity. You have cancer - you can get away with being brutally honest.  Or you can punch them with your good arm - that’ll give them something to be negative about. Find people who make you laugh and stick with them.

5.            Cry sometimes

Most of the time I didn’t feel like crying - something I put down to the amazing support of my family and friends. How could I cry when I was being shown so much love? But for some reason at bed-times I sometimes needed a little weep. It’d only last a minute or two while my husband held me and then it would be over and I’d be fine. It was a little pressure valve I need to open from time-to-time.

So what do I say to the lovely woman who is dealing with all this right now?

Three years on with my T-shirt-reading dog

.

Here’s what I tell her.

I think you will get through this.

Your arm will get better eventually - give it time and do your exercises.  

Surround yourself with positive people and the people who love you (and there are a lot of them). 

The treatment won’t be fun, but it might not be as bad as you fear either. 

Cry when you need to, but don’t forget to laugh either. 

Before you know it you’ll be three and half years on and will have discovered you never take another day or person for granted.  

All my love to you S.