the other side of the coin

Whenever someone learns I’ve had breast cancer, the response is always the same.  They cock their head and study me for a moment, then finally overcome their inhibition and ask, “How old are you?”

I tell them I was diagnosed at 27.

“But you’re so young,” they say.

I nod.

“Do you have a strong family history for breast cancer?” they ask.

I shake my head.

“Then why…?”  they wonder out loud.

I used to get frustrated with this line of questioning, because I don’t have a good explanation for why I got cancer when I did.  Now, instead of trying to identify a cause, I shrug and tell people that Fate flipped a coin and it landed on the wrong side.

For the past 7 months, I’ve seen the ugly side of that coin: chemo, hair loss, surgery, radiation, pneumonia, Tamoxifen… the list is exhausting.  I’ve gotten so used to ticking these negatives off to God as I tell Him I’ve had enough and I can’t deal with anything else going wrong right now.

Finally this week, for the first time, it occurred to me to look at the other side of that coin.  Yes, I had to do chemo, but at least chemo is available and there are medications to ameliorate the side effects.  And yes, I’ve had four surgeries, but at least at the end the surgeon was able to say, “We got it all.”  And yes, it’s unfair that I have to take a drug like Tamoxifen, but at least there’s a medication available that reduces my risk of a recurrence by 50%. 

Trying to be thankful takes a lot more energy than I thought it would.  It means that I have to start getting over myself and looking beyond my unfortunate circumstances.  But I think it’s an important step in getting my life back. 

Because if I wallow in my misfortune forever, if I forfeit my future to ruminate on my past, then cancer wins. 

And I’ve fought too hard and too long to concede now.

the five year itch

On Wednesday I began taking Tamoxifen, an estrogen-blocking pill I have to take every day for the next five years. 

The theory is that since my cancer cells were estrogen-receptor positive, if we deprive them of estrogen, they won’t have enough fuel to regenerate and they’ll die.  Research backs this up — women who took Tamoxifen for 5 years had a 50% reduction in the rate of breast cancer recurrence.

So all that to say — it’s a good idea.  Which doesn’t explain why, the afternoon I got back from the pharmacy with my bottle of pills, I started at the bottle for a long time and tried to invent reasons why I shouldn’t take them. 

First, the side effect profile.  The pamphlet that came with the pills said Tamoxifen can cause muscle aches, joint pain, hot flashes, blood clots, irregular periods, and mood swings.

Second, Tamoxifen could put me into irreversible menopause at the ripe old age of 29.

Third, even if it doesn’t put me into menopause, taking Tamoxifen for 5 years means I can’t have children until I’m at least 34, which seems a long way away right now.

Realizing that I have to manage these side effects and issues for the next 5 years, while most women my age are in their reproductive prime, is hard for me to swallow.

While I was listing all these excuses in my head, my friend and her husband were down the hall giving their two children a bath. The kids were laughing and giggling and splashing the water, and as I listened to them play, it made me realize how precious life is.  And that some things — like taking a medicine with horrible side effects and unknown variables — are worth it for the chance of being present to enjoy this world.

So I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, put the pill in my mouth, and I swallowed.

hope floats

 After writing the previous post, I remembered a verse I read a long time ago in the book of Lamentations that began, “Because of the Lord’s great love for us, we are not consumed…”

Today I looked it up on Biblegateway.com in a reader-friendly version of the Bible called The Message.  I was amazed to see how relevant it was to my experience and all the questions I’ve had — and how much hope it offers to people who are having a hard time.

Here it is, from the 3rd chapter of Lamentations:

19-21I’ll never forget the trouble, the utter lostness,
   the taste of ashes, the poison I’ve swallowed.
I remember it all—oh, how well I remember—
   the feeling of hitting the bottom.
But there’s one other thing I remember,
   and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:

 22-24God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out,
   his merciful love couldn’t have dried up.
They’re created new every morning.
   How great your faithfulness!
I’m sticking with God (I say it over and over).
   He’s all I’ve got left.

 25-27God proves to be good to the man who passionately waits,
   to the woman who diligently seeks.
It’s a good thing to quietly hope,
   quietly hope for help from God.
It’s a good thing when you’re young
   to stick it out through the hard times.

 28-30When life is heavy and hard to take,
   go off by yourself. Enter the silence.
Bow in prayer. Don’t ask questions:
   Wait for hope to appear.
Don’t run from trouble. Take it full-face.
   The “worst” is never the worst.

 31-33Why? Because the Master won’t ever
   walk out and fail to return.
If he works severely, he also works tenderly.
   His stockpiles of loyal love are immense.
He takes no pleasure in making life hard…

the problem of pain

When I found out I was going to be admitted to the hospital for the second time in November, I called one of my best friends.  “Sarah, my heart is just breaking for you,” she said.

That night as I lay in my hospital room alone, staring at the ceiling, I asked God, “Is your heart breaking, too?”

Since I was diagnosed almost two years ago, I’ve had dueling images of God in my head, and I can’t reconcile the two.  There’s the God who Timothy talks about as a commanding officer when he writes, “Endure hardship as a good soldier of Jesus Christ,” and there’s the God who in Matthew 7 is described as a Father who longs to give good gifts to his children.

When I’m having a hard time and God seems to be silent, I always wonder if He’s the commanding officer who’s pushing me until I either break or become stronger, or if He’s the loving Father who’s aware of every tear I cry, whose heart is breaking for me.

The question bothered me to the point that when a Catholic chaplain came by the next day, I asked her what she thought was going through God’s mind when His children suffered.  Before I finished the question, tears were streaming down my face.

She pulled up a chair next to my bed and explained her view of suffering. “I think we suffer because we live in a fallen world.  God lets suffering and pain happen, and He chooses not to intervene.”

I found her answer depressing.  “If that’s true, where’s the hope?” I asked.

She thought for a minute, and then answered, “I guess the only hope we have is to be incarnational.”  That was her word — incarnational.  To me it sounded more like a thesis topic than a ray of hope for a cancer patient.  “We need to be to each other the hope and love we can’t find in the world,” she said.

She left quickly and promised to return, but she never came back.

A few days later, a social worker from the hospital came to my room to see how I was doing.  “You must sometimes ask yourself why this happened to you,” she said.

I nodded.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I shrugged.  “Even if I knew why, it wouldn’t change anything,” I said.

She launched into her own theory.  “I think God is like a giant and we’re like ants,” she said.  “I think He tramples some of us, but not because He’s mean, just because we are unfortunate enough to be in His way.  I think suffering is a random accident,” she said.  She patted my hand and walked away.

It was by far the least helpful thing anyone’s said to me since I got sick. 

I don’t have an answer yet, but I can’t accept the answers those women tried to offer me.  There is no comfort in randomness.  And there is no security in depending on other human beings to provide us with the hope and love we need.  I think there has to be a better solution to this problem of pain.