Let’s go back a few months, shall we?

When I was newly diagnosed, I lived in a constant state of shock, couldn’t decide what to eat for dinner or what to wear, and drifted through conversations as if I wasn’t really there. How could I concentrate when I had a constant stream of inner dialogue yelling into my ear,  ‘You have cancer. You’re sick. You have cancer. You’re sick.’

The day after my diagnosis, I met my surgeon and she buried me in information about my first surgery and all of the treatments and procedures that might follow. She handed me a book called ‘The Intelligent Patient Guide to Breast Cancer’ which is packed with medical jargon and extensive information on surgery, post surgery exercises, as well as insight into chemotherapy and radiation. Although it is a fantastic book, I could only read it in increments because the descriptions and photos made my stomach turn and my heart jackhammer in my chest.

What I really wanted was a step by step guide on how to deal with the psychological ramifications of a diagnosis. What do you do when you wake up hyperventilating in the middle of the night with only the silence of your apartment to comfort you? How do you wrap your head around the reality of a double mastectomy at 31 years old? Oh and what about the pesky little fears like, how will I pay my bills and who will love me when I’m bald, scrawny, and my face breaks out in an acne-like chemo allergic reaction?

I wanted someone to tell me that I wasn’t slowly going crazy, but I also didn’t have the courage to reach out. In the first few weeks, every time I went anywhere, someone would thrust a phone number in my hands and say,  ‘You should really call my friend, ___________. She has been through this and would be happy to talk to you.’

I would smile politely and ‘lose’ the paper as soon as I could. I couldn’t envision a conversation where I dialed the number of a person I had never met and said, ‘Hi, my name is Terri. I have cancer. Please tell me all about your difficult experience so that I can feel better.’ I know now that any of these women would have happily shared their time with me and it probably would have brought me comfort, but I was too stubborn.

Doctors and nurses encouraged me to join a support group where we could sit in a circle and talk about our feelings. Again, I balked. How could I stay in denial if I had to talk about how hard this was? How could I fake it and pretend to be fine? Or worse, how could I not start to obsessively worry about the new friends I made and then feel silly for being there given that my cancer was only Stage 1?

Instead I got by with the amazing support of my friends who let me fall apart whenever needed, but also didn’t let cancer define me; my nurturing psychologist who encouraged me to face my messy emotions in the safety of her office; and of course, my wonderful family. A big shout out to my extended family members who had braved this journey before me and shared how they came out the other side. Thank you D and M!

One of my goals in writing this blog (and this book) is that by sharing my story, those of you that are in the middle of your own nightmare might feel a little less alone. I promise that I won’t pretend to know exactly how you feel because this pesky thing called cancer affects all of us differently. But, I will share my journey and you can read about it in the comfort of your own living room. I hope you are braver than me and reaching out for support (in whatever way it’s offered). But, if you too are wrestling with denial and the desire to just keep moving, I hope my words give you a little comfort and the occasional opportunity to laugh out loud.

On that note, if you know someone, who knows someone, who knows someone that is battling cancer and you think this blog might help in some way, please feel free to pass it along.