A World Without Breast Cancer
Essays, Featured — By Sarah Thebarge on October 21, 2010 at 8:00 amI returned from a 10-day trip to France on October 6th. After the customs agent stamped my passport, I proceeded through the next set of doors, heading towards baggage claim.
And that’s when I saw it. A ginormous poster with a big pink ribbon and the words, “Imagine A World Without Breast Cancer.” I had forgotten about Breast Cancer Awareness month. Either France doesn’t have one or it’s much more subdued, because the whole time I was there the only pink I noticed was the pastel sky over the Seine at sunset.
My first thought was, “A world without breast cancer would mean not being jolted out of vacation mode by a pink ribbon the size of a refrigerator.”
As I waited for my luggage, my second thought was, “After living in the world of breast cancer for four years, you’d think I’d be better adapted than this.”
You’d think I’d get used to pink breast cancer references. But they get me every time. Instead of being a comforting reminder of love and support, pink ribbons are like a Taser gun. Every time I see one, I’m jolted. Speechless. Tearful.
Ever since I heard those fateful words, “You have breast cancer,” I have been trying to imagine my life without it. And I can’t. It has permeated everything, and I can’t get it out. It has impacted my finances, relationships, education, eating habits, sleeping patterns, writing material, clothing choices, body image, and my faith.
At my last doctor’s appointment, I was trying to explain to my oncologist how drastically the cancer diagnosis continues to affect me. He suggested I talk to a breast cancer counselor, “because you have to figure out a new normal.”
And I thought, “I don’t need a new normal; just give me the old one back.” I would rather eliminate hot flashes, mastectomy scars and chemo chairs than make room for them in my 31-year-old life. But what would I have if they were gone?
The book of Genesis opens with Adam and Eve eating forbidden fruit from “the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.”
Much has been made of the evil introduced into the world by Adam and Eve’s fall from grace. Death, in all its forms, became reality. There’s no question that their knowledge of evil (and ours) was a fatal consequence of their sin.
But the tree wasn’t just the knowledge of evil; it was also the knowledge of good. Which makes me think that even after they were banished from Eden and experiencing pain for the first time in history, there must have been a part of them that was tasting goodness for the first time, too. Maybe forgiveness, redemption and companionship were enough to keep them from descending into utter despair.
When I imagine my life without breast cancer, I envision no pain and no scars. But if I gave up those things, I’d have to give up all the good that came with them.
The kindness of people who paid my rent while I was going through chemo.
The compliments from strangers about my perfectly round bald head and the baseball hats I wore to disguise it.
The colleagues who saw patients for me so I could rest for a few extra minutes.
The family who saw me at my worst and loved me anyway.
The friends who sat with me while I cried in silence.
The flicker of hope that made me think maybe the treatments would be worth it, maybe life would get better, maybe it wouldn’t always be so hard.
When people say you have to take the good with the bad, they’re not just reiterating a cliché ; they’re speaking truth. In this world we experience many troubles, but thank God, trouble’s traveling companion is grace. Evil is assuaged by good.
If I had to choose, I’d still take a life without cancer over the pain I’ve experienced over the past four years. But it’s not up to me. The only choice I have is to accept this “new normal,” as my oncologist says. To make the most of the gift of life I’ve been given – a gift of messy mixed blessings that arrives on my doorstep every morning, tied up in a tangle of pink ribbon.
Tags: breast cancer, breast cancer awareness month
7 Comments
Thank you Sarah for sharing this. You have beautifully captured the process of reflecting upon illness and suffering while maintaining a Christian worldview.
I too have experienced “a new kind of normal” after my open heart surgery. It has been two years, but I still vividly recall episodes surrounding my surgery.
Godspeed to your health and recovery and to your embrace of this new normal.
I don’t imagine it’s been an easy road to move from the terror of a diagnosis to the “new normal” of life post-cancer. And I can only imagine that it still affects you a great deal. All that is to say, these aren’t trite “lessons.” I imagine they were hard won. Thank you for that example, and for your beautiful writing.
Sarah thanks very much for this. It’s powerful, beautiful, helpful, and deeply meaningful.
Go Sarah, as always, inspiring.
Thanks for sharing Sarah! It’s not easy living life…let alone moving on and actually feeling “moved on”. Writing, talking, painting, running, screaming, crying – however you need to express yourself to transition your pain, your anguish, your frustrations into serenity is key. And it’ll happen. One day, somewhere, it will all change. Maybe slowly or all at once. But you must believe. Never give up on hope!
You made me think in more depth about breast cancer, and I thank you for that.
I had a dear friend, Pastor Ron Mehl, a pastor in Beaverton, Oregon. For years, he lived with the specter of death living inside him: leukemia. His teaching and preaching, his smile, his comments, his understanding of others, all aspects of his very life were challenged and influenced by the faithfulness of God as he lived with death. A friendship I will always treasure, and look forward to renewing in heaven.
You, too, are walking this path. Living with death is lonely as too few people comprehend.
But because of it you write with a depth and understanding few people have.
What many people run away from is the reality of Psalms 23 “My Lord walks with me through the valley of the shadow of death, His rod and His staff – they comfort me.”
My personal valley of the shadow of death wasn’t physical death: rather, it was the death that came from living with anger and then continuous sexual betrayal on the part of my husband (most without my knowledge), culminating with him having children outside of our marriage. We were missionaries. Our marriage of 40 years terminated in divorce and I lost literally every material thing. We’d lived outside of the US for 20 years. I had to leave my life, and return to the US, a country I no longer knew. The only “possessions” I had were my name, my relationship with the Trinity, and my six children, all married but one.
As you would wish breast cancer on no one, I would wish my emotional deaths upon no one. But just as you are becoming a stronger and more understanding person I, too, changed. Never again would I want to be that person I was.
I feel privileged to be walking this path with you – even though I’m thousands of miles away. What you are sharing with your words remind me of truths I need to re-visit.
I’m praying for you, for you are a valiant woman. One day, Lord willing, we will be able to sit down over a cup of coffee … and Karen needs to be there, too. For it is she who introduced you to me.
Until then – I look forward to reading more of your thoughts as you put them onto paper.
God bless!
Hi Sarah,
I recently stumbled upon your blog and I’m so glad I did. I really enjoy your writing. Thank you for sharing your experience and your thoughts. I have Lymphoma and was diagnosed at 26, so I can relate to a lot of things you say. I also completely agree that although I would never have chosen to have cancer, and I would rather not have had the experience, I have been shown beauty through my journey that I never expected and had never seen before. It’s a strange feeling to have: gratefulness for the goodness I’ve seen but difficulty accepting that I have cancer. It’s helpful to know that I’m not alone. I wrote on my blog a little bit about this if you’re interested: http://be-not-afraid.org/2011/07/27/armchair/
Thanks again Sarah.