We

February, three years ago, I was waiting to have a breast MRI. Although it was an optional test, and would cost us several hundred dollars out of pocket, I chose to have it. (My wonderful husband, in spite of the money, said to do whatever I had to do - one of the many reasons I love him.)

I had cancer in my right breast. Throughout the breast I had DCIS - ductal carcinoma in situ. This cancer is in the milk ducts and is like cancer inside a sealed envelope. As long as the envelope stays sealed, the cancer is actually harmless. The reason DCIS is removed, is because of the potential it has of becoming something worse. In my case, the corner of the envelope had ruptured, and a mass of DCIS cells had formed, creating a lump at the base of the nipple which could be felt. In addition to this, the breast biopsy had shown trace amounts of infiltrating cells, in an amount so small that they couldn't tell anything about it except that it was "there". It seemed that the DCIS was just beginning to mutate into cancer cells that were more dangerous; cells that could spread.

So, the decision was made to have the right breast removed - a unilateral mastectomy. My surgeon talked to me about the option of having a prophylactic mastectomy, which is done to prevent breast cancer from occurring on the unaffected side. The feeling was other worldly, sitting in a clean office, calmly talking with a white-coated gentleman wearing a dress shirt and tie about cutting off parts of my body. And there was no way, absolutely no way I was giving up my left breast if I didn't have to. If the left side remained untouched, then I maintained some modicum of control. I had absolutely no control over what was happening in me, but I did control my choices. They could not do anything to me that I didn't authorize, and somehow, in withholding permission - in saying, "No" - I achieved a sense of power in a situation in which I was otherwise powerless. And I thought that if I had the unilateral, I could just focus on the side that was still me, the side with feeling, the side without scars, and ignore the "missing" side. Was this rational? I don't know, but it was my reality and I became determined to keep the left breast.

This is the reason I was waiting for a breast MRI. I wanted to make sure the left side was unaffected, and for young breast tissue, an MRI is the best scan for seeing even the smallest abnormalities. But I had to wait until the tenth day of my cycle to have the test, and then I waited two weeks for results. The MRI showed "diffuse abnormality" on the right side, but nothing on the left. The left was cancer free. You'd think I would have yelled "woo-hoo", and jumped up and down because I was getting exactly what I wanted.

Except that something happened while I was waiting.

While I was waiting, someone my husband works with told him to tell me to do everything I could and take no chances - because his wife had had a unilateral mastectomy, and five years later the cancer came on the other side, eventually ending her life. While I was waiting, I found out my aunt's breast cancer which she had had years before had become metastatic - stage IV, a death sentence. I didn't know it then, but she would lose her battle in June, 2009. While I was waiting, my doctor ran the numbers and let me know that even if the left side was unaffected, I had a 45% chance of developing cancer on the left in my lifetime. But more persuasive than any of those things, my eight-year-old daughter took my hands, looked me in the eye, and said, "Mommy, do whatever you have to do so that we never have to go through this again." We.

In spite of being caught up in what was happening in my own body, I knew there was a we involved, not just a me. Obviously, I knew what was happening affected my family, my friends. I knew there was a we when people gathered around me at the altar to pray for me, and when I opened my dry eyes, theirs were filled with tears. But the we that was that eight year old, whose eyes were filled with innocence and trust, trumped them all. She changed my mind in an instant. In that moment, I let go my need to control, and chose the path of precaution.

Do I wish it were different? Absolutely. There are times when I look in the mirror at my scarred body, and I wish. But as the saying goes, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride." Wishing changes nothing. I learned, a short time later, that I had made the right decision. My cancer was aggressive - it had already spread. Doing "everything" was the right thing. So I try, not always successfully, to be grateful for those scars. For they remind me, if I let them, that every single day is a gift. Every single day is one more day of we.

Are You there, God? It's me, LaRae - Feb, 2007

If you had asked me, before I had cancer, how would I feel if I ever received a cancer diagnosis, my answer wouldn't have taken any thought at all. Terrified. This, however, isn't what I felt at all. I was amazed at my own lack of fear. People commented to me at the time, that I was so brave, so courageous. But that wasn't true - I was neither of those things. I simply didn't feel afraid. What I did feel was something like this - I felt utterly alone, cast adrift, heading without a rudder into stormy seas.

It was as if the little boat that was my life, which had always been anchored in a safe port, had had its mooring lines cut, and was drifting away. The shoreline was getting smaller and smaller, and I had no means of getting back. And I found in that moment, that I wondered if God knew what was happening to me, and if He did, did He even care?

I am a woman of faith. I believe, fundamentally, in the core of my being, in a God who loves me, who wants relationship with me, and who has provided a Way for me to have that relationship. But I have to admit, if I am completely honest, that in this moment of crisis, I struggled to believe it. And the reason is this - He was silent. I felt no comforting Presence, no peace in my spirit. And so I sat on the edge of my bed, and cried out to Him - Are you there? - Do You see what's happening? - Do you care what's happening? And then, typical of who I am, once I had quit swimming in my self pity, I approached Him more reasonably.

"Lord, forgive me for my lack of faith. I simply need to hear from You. I need something, anything, even if it's 'Get a grip, already, woman.' I just need to know that You are present in this situation, that You are not standing far off, with Your back turned, refusing to see me." And so I quieted my spirit, and I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I have never heard God speak in an audible voice. I have never seen a vision. I was not looking for a mystical experience. However, God says, "I love those who love me; and those who diligently seek me will find me." I believe, and have experienced, that when I truly seek Him, with quiet expectation, patiently waiting, He always shows up. Sometimes I suddenly think something I was not thinking before. Sometimes, my heart is stirred within me. This time, like a fully formed thought, it just dropped into my mind. "Psalm 91. Read it."

I got my Bible, looked up the Psalm, and started to read. It was all good stuff, but I wasn't sure what God wanted me to take away from it. Until the end, when the last three verses jumped off the page at me. I knew that I knew that I knew - this is what He had for me, and it was so much better than, "Get a grip, already." I read the verses again, and then I read them aloud, exchanging the masculine pronouns for feminine ones. It went like this:

"Because she has loved Me, therefore I will deliver her; I will set her securely on high, because she has known My name. She will call upon Me, and I will answer her; I will be with her in trouble; I will rescue her, and honor her. With a long life I will satisfy her, and let her behold My salvation."

There is something about speaking these words aloud that imbues them with power. I felt strength enter my heart, like steel. It had no force of its own, but it was solid, unmoving, completely unbending. And I knew that God was not standing far off, with His back turned, refusing to see me. He was standing, face to face.

It is notable that the first get well card I received, which came from my mom's best friend, had Psalm 91:14-16 written in it. And then two days later, I received a stack of note cards from a friend, each with an encouraging word written on it, and the first one - the one on top - contained Psalm 91:14-16. It was as if the Lord were saying, "Do you get it yet?" I got it. I knew what had happened. I sought, and I found Him.

The Median

Having cancer was the median of my life. Once I crossed that median, I was on a different road, going a different direction. It was a distinct point, with a "before" and an "after". We all have these defining moments in our lives, which make us who we are. We say, "I'm a wife," or "I'm a mother." And now, for me, "I've had cancer."

I never, ever thought cancer would personally touch me. Is that crazy? I know that cancer can touch anyone - no one is immune. But... I am an eternal optimist, I see the glass as half-full, I believe there is a solution to every problem, I have faith in God. So, it never crossed my mind as a possibility. I never imagined it, I never worried about it. In the world I had created for myself, it would never happen.

And then it did. And my life was forever changed. Physically, cancer came and went (or at least went into hiding). But the spectre of cancer came and stayed. It permeated my psyche, it changed who I am. Fundamentally, I'm probably the same person I always was, but I definitely feel different. My perspective has changed, and therefore my whole approach to life has changed. I try to wring every drop of joy I can out of each day. When I look at my children, I focus on burning the memory of them, in that exact moment, into my mind. When my husband comes home, it's no longer a quick peck, and brief hug. I put my arms around him and hold him for a moment, soaking in his energy, letting our breath mingle, daily reminding myself that he is part of me. I savor my moments, and try not to waste time. Because I know, in a breath, it could all be gone. In a breath, I could be gone.

This is Cancer.

When I received my diagnosis, I only had a few people who were in my life who had dealt with cancer. And they were all alive and well. And I only knew one person who had had breast cancer - and aunt of mine who was a "survivor" of several years. Since my diagnosis, I have lost six people I knew and loved to this disease, including my mother-in-law, and my aunt whose breast cancer came back with a vengeance and took her away. I feel the loss of these people every day.

This, too, is Cancer.

Before cancer I ignored my aches and pains. If I had a sore throat, a sore back, a headache - I would self-medicate with over the counter drugs, and, stoic Swede that I am, keep going on. I rarely went to the doctor. Now, I'm hyper aware of every little thing going on in my body. I have had more scans than I care to count, looking inside my body, making sure the cancer has not spread. I have had a persistent cough for three months. It's most likely bronchitis, but the dark and evil thought crouches just beyond my consciousness, whispering, "It could be the cancer." I truly believe it's not, but that dark shadow hovers over me constantly.

This also, is Cancer.

If I could somehow manipulate time and had the choice to go back to the road I was on, never crossing the median, I probably would. But that, of course, is only fantasy. I must walk the path before me, with all of the blessing, and all of the loss. I choose not to waste my cancer, but instead encourage others and rejoice in every day I am given. The theme of my life has become:

"Rejoice always; pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."
I Thessalonians 5:16-18

This is the path cancer has put me on. This is who cancer has made me.

This is Cancer.

The C-Word - Feb, 2007

Three years ago today, the doctor called from the radiology department to tell me my breast biopsy was malignant. It had all started a few weeks before, on January 12, when I had been in my doctor's office because I was convinced I had a urinary tract infection (UTI). I had had one before in my life, after giving birth by C-section, and my symptoms were identical. Nothing short of an infection requiring medication would have made me call my doctor - I had neither the time nor the inclination to go running to her for every little thing. (Oh, my, how things change....) While they had me on the phone, they asked if they could schedule me for a physical at the same time, since it had been two years since my last exam. I agreed - why not?

Interestingly, I didn't end up having a UTI. In fact, my symptoms completely disappeared a few hours after making my appointment. I did, however, keep the appointment, and it was during the manual breast exam that my doctor said, "Hmmm.... I feel a little lump here."

WHAT?

I looked at her and said, "Are you sure?" I realize this was a ridiculous question. Of course she was sure, or she wouldn't have said anything. I was just so stunned. I was 38 years old and having "a little lump" wasn't even on my radar as a possibility. She felt again, and assured me it was very small (about the size of a pea), but definitely there. In her opinion, it felt fibrous, was probably nothing to worry about, but as a precaution wanted me to have a mammogram.

I had the mammogram a couple of days later. I tried not to think about the possibilities while I waited for results, but at night in bed, my hand would involuntarily go to my right breast, and feel the lump. I did it again and again. Yep - it was still there, each and every time. It's not like I was expecting it to dissolve or something. That's not why I kept checking. It's that I had been invaded by this foreign enemy, which, in great part was an unknown quantity. And so I kept checking the two small things I knew about it - its size and position - to make sure they were the same.

It was a relief when the phone rang and the caller I.D. said it was the radiology department. With my heart pounding, I grabbed the phone, only to be told that my mammogram was "abnormal" and I needed to come back for a higher resolution mammogram in addition to an ultrasound. When I pressed the woman on the other end of the phone for an explanation of what "abnormal" was, she bent over backwards to tell me nothing. So I scheduled the next appointment.

The next mammogram showed white spots (calcium) throughout the breast, and the ultrasound showed a small mass, which showed up black against a white background. The radiologist took me back into his little cave after the exams. He put the films up on the light box and explained what I was seeing. He told me that calcium is almost always benign, but that calcium in combination with a mass is "suspicious findings." He said, "It doesn't mean that you have cancer, and it doesn't mean that you don't have cancer, it's simply suspicious findings." And so, we scheduled the biopsy.

Driving home from that appointment, that word, the C-word, kept bouncing around my head. He was the first person in this process who had actually said the word "cancer" to me. The others had seemed to shy away from the actual word, using other words that are less potent, like "abnormal",or "it's only a precaution" - words that won't incite panic in the listener. When the phone rang three years ago, I had been waiting four days for my biopsy results. They had told me it would be 48 hours, and so I was on pins and needles wondering what was causing the delay. When I said hello, the doctor said, "I wish I had good news for you." He told me the biopsy results were malignant. He read portions of the pathology report to me, because I kept asking questions. But the c-word was never spoken. He said everything but the word.

Although I had been so calm and collected during the call, when I hung up, I lay down on the couch and cried, silently praying that my children wouldn't come in and ask me what was wrong. I called my husband, my partner in all this, who I knew would be devastated. Then I had to call my parents, who had been praying for me, for good results. And when the moment came, I found I couldn't say the c-word either. "The doctor called," I told them. "It's malignant."