Unlikely Gifts Unwrapped (eBook)

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The Day After

“A woman who survives breast cancer moves forward faster when her pain is acknowledged, understood, and validated.”

—Beverly Vote, publisher, Breast Cancer Wellness Media

When the alarm from our Bose Wave Radio jolted me out of a thick slumber on February 11, 2016, I felt cleansed. Triumphant. Like perhaps I finally mattered.

After reaching over to press the alarm-off button, I lay my head back on the pillow.

Ready.

Aim.

Inferno.

I singed from face to torso, aflame with my morning hot flash. Or as my father-in-law, Pop, calls them, growing pains. Even after I kicked back the covers, the air in our sixty-one-degree bedroom felt like a sizzling heat wave.

I had lived three hundred sixty-six hard-earned days since learning I had breast cancer. Treatment had wrapped up over a month before and I was in the hormone therapy phase, but breast cancer wasn’t done with me yet. I was entering what I called the trigger stage, where my sensitivities were amped and my head was full of new questions.

Who am I now?

Am I cured of cancer?

Will cancer come roaring back? Will I?

Who won?

The Car Race

Toward the end of my summer of chemo the year before, I had experienced one of several moments of realization when I became a participant in an impromptu car race. The aha moment was an accelerant in my trek to find redemption from the grips of cancer fear, and it was the arc in my first book, The Unlikely Gift of Breast Cancer.

I was on my way back from lunch to my job at a company headquartered at Centennial Airport, southeast of downtown Denver, Colorado. During our lunch, a dear friend, Sheryl, wisely suggested I stop lamenting and get on with life as though I didn’t have cancer, even though I still had months of treatment ahead.

Her words consumed my thoughts so intensely I didn’t realize I was behind the wheel of one of four sports cars driving two across and two deep on the south side of the airport, speeding up then slowing down on the four-lane road. Since the other cars were being driven by middle-aged men and I was the puffy, bald, nauseous one with breast cancer wearing a bandana, I was overcome by a geyser of emotions.

First up was pride. I was thrilled by how my Mercedes E55—my divorce gift to myself ten years before—and I were holding our own, pissing with the big dogs. Owning the road. My heart pulsated with adrenaline-fueled excitement as I marveled at the Porsche 911 and Lamborghini Gallardo in front of me, accelerating and decelerating, playfully taunting one another. A light blue Lotus Elise had appeared in my rearview mirror and positioned itself beside me. We were a cohesive unit, all regal and proud, like a tearful gold medal Olympic athlete who stands on the highest step of the podium while their country’s national anthem plays.

But I self-actualized for only a fleeting moment. I became agitated, furious with myself for thinking I should actually celebrate my presence in the boys club. Wait, I deserved to be at the table. Women drive sports cars too! And who gives a rip if she has breast cancer?

Yet again, I had self-sabotaged my euphoria, allowing pessimistic thoughts to seep into my conscience. I don’t deserve to be happy being one of the guys, I thought. I am compromised and unhealthy, and the rules say I’m supposed to be mopey and frumpy, enviously watching healthy people live their carefree lives.

I forgot about the car race and engaged in a mental duel with my version of the grim reaper—a crusty, wise, imaginary warlock creature I rely on to help me get through perplexing moments.

The warlock’s “break free” comment got my attention. So much so that I gripped the Benz’s steering wheel at ten and two and screamed a drawn-out F-you about how angry I was at cancer—not loud enough for the other drivers to hear, but forceful enough to make my throat feel like my vocal cords had rubbed against a vegetable grater. Tears welled when I realized I had never felt more alive.

Sheryl had been spot-on at lunch when she suggested I start living life as though I didn’t have cancer. All I seemed to do from dawn to dusk was obsess about my lack of hair and energy, my inability to fit in anywhere, and how unfair it was to feel sick all the damn time.

Senseless, thoughtless cancer. I didn’t want anyone’s sympathy or special treatment, yet the only thing in the months after my diagnosis that made me feel normal or welcome was that flash mob–esque car race.

Our four-ship of cars dispersed at the next stoplight. The Lamborghini went straight, the Porsche turned right, I turned left, and I lost track of the Lotus. For the remainder of my drive back to the office I pondered the irony of the incident, wondering whether I had experienced a deliberate God moment. My skin tingled and my throat felt calloused as energy roared through my body, generating synchronized torment and thrill.

Then a riveting notion surfaced in my congested brain, a message I believed was sent from my guardian angel, a female spirit who represents the positive influencers of my life, both deceased and living: Tell the world in a book about how cancer has transformed you in extraordinary ways.

A dazzling flash of clarity—a trajectory I had sought for months and years—had unexpectedly appeared. I was ready to drop the shackles of fear and insecurity, persevere through the remaining six months of treatment, and embrace the opportunity to reinvent myself.

I was overdue for a renovation, and cancer was my wrecking ball. Bring it on.

Those God moments, entwined with my growing concern over the lack of mental health support provided to those impacted by cancer, at least in 2015, would become my life rafts of hope back from the abyss of emotional darkness.

Still Stuck

On my first day as a one-year survivor, I attended a breakfast meeting with a fellow breast cancer survivor who is an internationally known businesswoman. We were joined by a representative from the University of Denver’s advancement team, and during our discussion we brainstormed potential COPE collaborations. After our meeting ended, I drove to work.

I am embarrassed to admit it, but I never thought to take the day off to celebrate and bask in the glorious gift of life. No, I needed to address the lack of tailored mental health support available for those cursed with cancer. Since I wasn’t yet ready to focus on me, I stayed busy. Busy...