Risk, Courage, and Women: Contemporary Voices in Prose and Poetry

hints from a cancer victor

95 hints from a cancer victor Terri Jones I am not a cancer survivor—I am a cancer victor. It wasn’t enough for me to survive cancer. I wanted to triumph over it. In my mind, there was very little doubt that I could do it. You see, I have been blessed in my life and bad things do not happen to me. This strength and self-assurance were instilled in me from birth. As an infant I was adopted by two loving and incredibly devoted people. I was a chosen child … picked out from all the other babies. I knew I was loved and wanted. One thing about being adopted. You have no medical history. Knowing this I was especially vigilant about my health care. I never missed a scheduled doctor’s appointment. I routinely performed breast self-examinations. When I was 38, I decided to have a baseline mammogram. I did everything right. After living on the East Coast for eight years, I moved back to San Antonio and wasted no time in locating a new butcher, baker, candlestick maker. And gynecologist. My first appointment was only eleven months after my last annual check-up. I thought I was well within the “margin of error.” My appointment was scheduled for April 22. I remember it was a Thursday. In early April, I had noticed that my breasts were tender and enlarged—especially my right one. But, I was consumed by the demands of my new job and believed that anything wrong could certainly wait another week or two. Anyway, two things were working in my favor. One, I had cleavage for the first time in my life—even if it was slightly lopsided. And, two, I’ve always heard that cancer doesn’t hurt. Was I ever wrong! After taking one look at my right breast, my doctor wasted no time in sending me three floors down to Dr. Kathy Safford’s office. As I recall that afternoon, I am struck by the eerie stillness I felt as I faced the inevitable. My certainty was confirmed a few days later after a surgical biopsy when Dr. Safford said, “It’s cancer.” Well, I already knew that. I think all cancer patients do. You may hope and pray that you are wrong but, in your heart, you know you are right. In no time at all, I was processed through the cancer survival system. First, a battery of 96 Risk, Courage, and Women tests and scans; then a catheter surgically implanted in my chest wall for the administration of chemotherapy drugs. I listened intently as my oncologist recited the odds for a person with my kind of cancer. “Stage III,” he said. I didn’t want to know how many stages there were. Over and over during those weeks, I appreciated the value of having no medical history. It makes filling out forms and the interminable sessions with hospital admissions people a snap. However, for you unadopted folks, here is a helpful survival tactic I hope you never have to use: Xerox the information. One of the most common stories you hear about chemotherapy is that it makes you so sick you believe the cure is worse than the disease. I grew up on Mexican food. I eat corny dogs at the State Fair. How bad could this be? Anyway, bad things don’t happen to me. Within hours of the catheter surgery and the start of my first course of chemicals so toxic they are known only by letters and numbers, I was happily chowing down on a double Sonic burger. The next morning, before my home health care nurse arrived, I went out for breakfast tacos and was mentally savoring the chili cheeseburger that I planned to have for lunch. This was a habit that was to earn me a certain amount of infamy within the nursing service corridors. I think it’s really important to remember that—no matter what you hear, no matter whom you hear it from—if it didn’t happen yesterday, it’s been improved. In the years since my treatments, there have been numerous advances in care. Ten years ago chemotherapy may have been dreadful but, today, there are drugs to counteract the drugs. Faced with this, you should ask for everything available to make you feel better. Even if it is an order of french fries. Let me tell you something else about chemotherapy, radiation, surgery, and all the...