We all hear the statistics. One in nine. One in nine. How many of us thinks she’ll BE that one, until she IS that one in nine?

We all want to believe we will be well, and our lives will be ‘normal’ again. Cancer changes everything, meaning EVERYTHING, cell-deep. It changes your cells; it changes your friends; it changes your nightmares; it changes your hopes; it changes your essence.

I was taught to do self-exams every month, when I was 12. I have done so, faithfully, for 35 years… never really thinking it could happen to me.

This month, I found trouble. I still don’t know how radical the surgery is going to be. The pain and swelling under my arm does not bode well.

I hate the hurry-up-and-wait medical system, here in the UK (I used to live in the USA). I need those answers, before I drive myself crazy.

But I’ve been an invalid, in the past, and though it was not terminal, it was very, very serious. So I know how bleak the world looks. I understand the sense that you ought to have won. We’re supposed to be so strong, smart, resourceful, and soldier on.

Sometimes, it’s all you can do, to open your eyes. Sometimes, it’s too much to ask, for you to talk. I hope for your sake, you have people around you, who understand.

I’m going to be doing this alone… except for people like you.

If you’re in the USA, go to http://www.denverwomenschorus.org, and order their cd, ‘Where I Live’. I sang with them for 14 years, and that was the proudest moment of all those years. ‘Where I Live’ is an oratorio, commissioned by the Denver Women’s Chorus, on the subject of breast cancer. There are 7 songs, and 6 poems. All the texts are by people who were on the journey of cancer, when they wrote them.

Part proceeds of the cd go to charities, in the Denver area. The music is breathtaking, and the words… you’ll understand.

May the gods watch over you. I’ll be back. Please post again.

I hated to read about the recurrence of your cancer.

I hope this reductive, miserable disease will become one of lifelong management for you, and that you will enjoy increasingly long periods of “as-good-as-it-gets-health.”

I’ve bookmarked your blog. I’ll visit regularly.

But I’m going to go one presumptuous step further.

When my Father was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 1990 (he was in his early forties – GET YOUR PSA TESTS, GUYS), it was frightening. But he had a radical prostastectomy and had no cancerous cells in his lymph nodes. Five years after that they told him he was “CANCER FREE.”

Fast-forward to a couple of years ago, and after missing ONE PSA test – just ONE – my Father’s test results were through the roof. I couldn’t believe that it would be the same cancer again. I DIDN’T believe it would be cancer again. I’d done serious research for a Medical History class right after he’d had his first treatment and I thought I was well-informed.

But everything changes all the time (for the bad and for the good). At sixty years old my Father was diagnosed with “terminal” prostate cancer (remember – HE HAS NO PROSTATE)- spread all throughout his bones.

Sorry – too long. I will say that he’s doing well right now and recently I even found slight some hope that there might be a treatment after his androgen-suppression fails.

I guess I’m trying to say that NO ONE should ever feel stupid. People are ultra-optimistic and the medical professionals used to bandy the phrase “cancer-free” about like they were gods. I was so angry about that (in regards to my Dad). But I realize there’s a fine line between, “This treatment went so well,” and “You could have a dormant cell that could, at some point, spread and kill you.” They say the first. I’ve come to peace with that.

You DID beat cancer; you ARE beating cancer. Every day that you get up and do SOMETHING is beating cancer. And I’m not talking about being chirpy and having false notions. You wrote this beautiful entry. And it, in turn, will help someone else.

I don’t know how one doesn’t live in constant fear, though I know it’s not healthy. When I think about that, I look at my niece. She was diagnosed with Stage II Hodgkin’s Lymphoma at sixteen (and it took a YEAR to diagnose – even though she happened to be living back East and was going to Johns Hopkins). She went through chemo (and the accompanying baldness) and low-level radiation with such an amazing attitude (not always PERFECT, but damned impressive).

She turned eighteen last November, and was told that she had had a “complete response” to treatment (no more “cancer free,” notice). She has quarterly scans, and I don’t know that she thinks too hard about it, but the rest of us hold our collective breath. And then we can only say, “So far, so good.”

I always say too much. I should have just left it at, “I’m very, very sorry.” But I do believe so strongly that you should NOT feel stupid or like a failure. Your last sentence put is more eloquently than I’ve ever heard it phrased. Because THAT is the real fight.