It’s Not All Sunshine and Roses in Breast Cancerland

It’s not all sunshine, ribbons, and thorn-free roses in the cancer community. The losses are real, and they have a profound impact on us. 

I had no frame of reference for how it would feel after cancer.  When I think about my previous injuries or illnesses, for the most part, they don’t impact me emotionally once I’ve recovered.  I don’t think about my survivorship journey after my herniated disc– although I would like to have more feeling in my finger- but that is a different thing.  There is no survivorship community I have joined because I broke my hand many years ago.  I went through the treatment, and it was done.

But breast cancer is something different altogether.  Breast cancer can be treated.  But it may come back—especially hormone receptor-positive breast cancer.  Yes, even DCIS, my stage 0, could come back and then turn into invasive cancer, and there is a tiny possibility it could metastasize.  

I could turn a blind eye to that possibility and move forward with my life.  I could move on as if nothing had happened.  There are days, like today when I wonder if that would have been easier.

Of course it would have been easier.  

Clearly, that wasn’t what I did.  And I wouldn’t change my choices.  I’ve gained so much by joining the cancer support groups, becoming a part of the global breast cancer advocacy community, writing about breast cancer, meeting newly diagnosed people, and learning about the latest advances in treatments. I have a new purpose and a deep joy in encouraging, serving, and participating in this amazing community. We work together, each of us adding our own voice to the symphony of advocacy.

Until one voice becomes silent. 

And the emotions come up. Again.  I feel the weight of death.  The sadness and the pain, knowing that we will never hear that voice again in this lifetime.

This morning, I was sitting on my couch, waiting for my tea to finish brewing.  I had a post started- not this one- and I was ready to finish it and publish it.  I opened up Twitter to see what was new.

Then I saw the update that Flori (@CANsurvive) had died. Her daughter posted the update to her account with a touching photo of her with her grandson. Flori was an encouragement to the end.  Just a few days ago, she was online, tweeting words of comfort to another MBC advocate who was having a challenging time in the hospital. 

Flori knew death was coming and was honest and transparent about her emotions leading up to it.  She shared her grief and the difficulty leading up to it in many poignant tweets and reflective posts on her blog. 

“Again and again I remind myself that all I have is each moment, and to live in the day I was given. Live in the day I am given. Simple yet profound. What other day is there?!” – Flori

Moments are fleeting, and we never know the number of days we have ahead.  

As I grapple with the emotions I feel today, which are uncomfortable, sad, heavy, and dark, I am faced with a choice.  This moment of reflection on my life, as I mourn the death of yet another in the cancer community, isn’t one I expected today.  

I suppose I could have brushed it off, pulled myself up by my figurative bootstraps, and done the day as if “nothing” had happened.  I could tell myself that I’m feeling too deeply and getting too involved. 

Or, I could honor this moment.  I could reflect on what I learned from Flori.  I could remember her as I look through her writings and art on her website. I can see how she chose joyful moments, even as her MBC progressed to the point that swallowing was impossible.  

So I sat for a while, staring outside at the lake. I sipped my tea in reflection. I felt sadness surround me. And then, I opened up my coloring app and painted a rose. Flori loved flowers, so I painted roses for her.

Flori isn’t the first death in the community that has hit me hard, and it won’t be the last. As I write and work through the emotions, I do what I can to remember and feel grateful for the opportunity to learn from her. She was an encouragement and a joy.  I will miss her voice in our symphony. 

Today, I feel the darkness and the heaviness of being a part of the cancer community. And I will accept it because it isn’t all sunshine, ribbons, and thorn-free roses in cancerland.