THIRTY-SIX AND COUNTING
Before my husband and I married, I warned him he’d
better be sure about the "until death do us part" vow because
the women in my family live to be very old…and we get a little bit senile.
Around that same time, I came up with the theory that I had a minimum
of 36 years and counting to look forward to. Not a fate I had earned
or specifically deserved. Just my genetic good fortune.
My mother was 36 when I was born. When I got married
at age 28, she was 63, her mother was 90, and two of her aunts were
well into their eighties. All were active and going strong. Since I’d
inherited my mother’s thighs, I figured I’d also inherited her longevity
genes and would live at least as many years as she. And that gave me
36 years and counting.
Today my mother is 84 years old. She is still volunteering
at a local grade school and attending democrat luncheons every Friday.
I am 48 and currently healthy, but I no longer think in terms of 36
years and counting despite my mother’s age and vitality.
At the age of 45, I was diagnosed with "stage
four" breast cancer. But how could that be? There was no history
of breast cancer in our family. I’d had annual breast exams since I
was 21 and annual mammograms starting at age 40. Besides, my grandmother
was 92 when she died. One of her sisters lived to be 95. My mother was
then 81 and extremely active. I was supposed to have 36 more years and
counting, remember? Someone wasn’t playing by the rules!
That’s what I kept thinking that summer of 1996.
Someone wasn’t playing by the rules. Then came the question, "Why
me?" However, developing breast cancer isn’t something one
woman deserves and another doesn’t. It just happens. Why me? Why not
me? It really is that simple. But advanced breast cancer? After all
those mammograms? "SOMEONE" (as I look to the heavens) will
have some explaining to do!
I now try to look at the "why me" question
differently. I still believe that the answer to "why me" in
terms of getting cancer is definitely "why not me."
But I try to apply the same logic to surviving advanced breast
cancer. Why should I survive when the statistics are not in my favor?
The rules are the same: one doesn’t inherently deserve nor can one earn
the right to survive. Thankfully, neither is it a zero sum game; for
one person to live, another does not have to die. So, why me? Why do
I believe I will survive? Because I choose to live my life as an optimist.
Why not me! Why not all of us who find ourselves in this predicament!
Besides, I still have my mother’s thighs, so surely those longevity
genes must be kicking around in me somewhere.
Choosing to be optimistic is not to say I don’t
have my moments. Less than a year after diagnosis and treatment, while
still working at a university, I was making small talk with a recruiter
after lunch. He casually asked a standard recruiter question, "What
would you like to be doing five years from now?" I believe I audibly
gasped. "I just want to be alive!" is what my mind was screaming,
though I mumbled something else, something inane. That’s how and when
it usually happens, how I start thinking about cancer and my life expectancy.
An innocent question or comment brings such thoughts to the forefront.
I saw a similar thing happen to my mother shortly
after my father’s death. That poor shoe salesman. All he asked was,
"Would you like to buy some shoe polish for those shoes?"
My mother started to cry. My father had always polished her shoes for
her.
My mother still misses my father, but she is rarely
caught off guard by innocent comments and questions anymore. Fortunately,
I can say the same thing. Something I see or hear or read may cause
me to think about the statistical prognosis associated with advanced
breast cancer, but seldom do I cry. Instead I might sigh (admittedly
quite loudly at times). Sometimes I curse. (I’m still really peeved
about those mammograms and "SOMEONE" not playing by the rules.)
Then I move on.
How has my life changed since diagnosis? I’m still
working on that. I admire and am in awe of people who, when suddenly
faced with their own mortality, not only examine their lives and reevaluate
their priorities, but also immediately make changes in how they live
and think and feel, as needed. How do they do that? Some (though admittedly
not all) talk about it as if it were the most natural, easiest thing
to do under the circumstances. Sometimes I worry that since I haven’t
had my own epiphany, I must be really dense, or perhaps only really
shallow. But other times I choose to equate it to those endless hours
spent sitting in math classes, assuming that understanding all those
calculations and formulas came easily to everyone but me, only to learn
we all had to work hard at gaining understanding; it just came sooner
for some than others.
My life has been and continues to be filled with
blessings. I come from a close and loving family. I have friendships
that have spanned decades. I’ve been given the opportunities to get
an education, travel to beautiful and exotic parts of the world, and
work in a variety of settings for and with many exceptional people.
And every day for the past 20 years I have given thanks for having my
husband in my life. His love, compassion, strength and humor helped
me through the early days of fear and despair. Now, together, we are
making plans for the future while making the most of the present.
It’s true I no longer think in terms of 36 years
and counting. But on July 3, 1999, we celebrated my three-year anniversary
since diagnosis. That makes 36 months and still counting!
Gail Reese Ward
July 1999