Read Online Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul by Jack Canfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack Canfield
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“The doctor wants another picture.”
This time he wanted it deeper. “Good grief,” I told her, “if this machine is the latest in technological inventions from Sweden, don’t they have any full-busted women there? This is really beginning to hurt!” We repeated the procedure five more times. My torso ached and finally I said, “Come on, what’s going on here? I’ve really got someplace to be at one o’clock!”
Suddenly, the kind technician who had been so pleasant until then said very seriously, “Wait right here. I will call in the radiologist.” The room became an empty void and time stopped.
The radiologist opened the door slightly to say, “Remember that little lump you had on your left side? Well, it has changed in size and density.”
“What does that mean, Doctor?”
“It means that it could be cancer. I’d like to do a biopsy. We’ll call you on Monday to schedule.” Stunned, I dressed slowly. Not me! No way, not at 48. Life was really just beginning for me. All the really good things were just starting to happen. As I drove home that day, I resolved not to let the morning’s events interfere with my Chicago weekend with my daughter. But try as I might over the next few days to forget, I felt that I had a new companion and I was not sure if it was welcome company.
Upon my return to St. Louis, the pace quickened. The biopsy indicated cancer. My husband of 24 years is a devoted man, but when it comes to being emotionally supportive in times of stress, leave him out. The kids, too, continued doing their own thing. I soon realized that if I were going to get through this “mess,” I would have to call upon all the inner strength for which we Irish women are so famous. And call upon it I did!
On July 8, 1992, the day of my 25th wedding anniversary, I was wheeled into surgery. I remember saying to my husband, “Well, Bob, some people get to go on cruises on their 25th anniversary, I get to have surgery!” The surgeon came into the room the following day to tell me there were two types of cancer cells present; one was an estrogen-based cell and the other was a very aggressive cell. I knew then I had met my match, but I refused to go down without a fight!
My recuperation was very painful. I couldn’t sleep. The pain was incessant. Nor was I able to move my arm. Slowly, very slowly, I began taking charge. I located a physical therapist who gave me exercises to work the arm muscles, I met with a nutritionist to discuss a better diet, and I prepared myself for the radiation therapy that was soon to come.
Crazy as it may sound, the day after I came home, I went to the backyard and began to put in a new sidewalk. Each day, with one arm, I filled buckets with pieces of concrete. I had to test myself. I set goals for myself and worked to achieve them. After all, I had a teaching position to return to in a few weeks and wasn’t going to let cancer stop me.
I took radiation therapy every afternoon following a full day of teaching. I tried hard not to miss any work during that time period. I didn’t want my colleagues to think that because I had cancer, I was no longer a quality teacher. By October of 1992, I felt I had won the battle!
Then, early December found me back at the surgeon’s office for a checkup. We were chatting when he leaned over, touched my neck and said, “How long have you had this lump?” I said, “Oh, about a year. My regular doctor thinks it’s an arthritic nodule.” I noticed his frown as he suggested that it be removed. My family insisted that I take a day off and follow up on the doctor’s suggestion. Another biopsy, what a waste of time! Christmas was right around the corner and I was busy preparing for the holidays.
Once again, I was wheeled into surgery. This time, the diagnosis was thyroid cancer. More stitches, more therapy, more pain. I was down, but not out!
I recall in the solitude of my living room thinking that the first cancer was a fluke, but the
This time he wanted it deeper. “Good grief,” I told her, “if this machine is the latest in technological inventions from Sweden, don’t they have any full-busted women there? This is really beginning to hurt!” We repeated the procedure five more times. My torso ached and finally I said, “Come on, what’s going on here? I’ve really got someplace to be at one o’clock!”
Suddenly, the kind technician who had been so pleasant until then said very seriously, “Wait right here. I will call in the radiologist.” The room became an empty void and time stopped.
The radiologist opened the door slightly to say, “Remember that little lump you had on your left side? Well, it has changed in size and density.”
“What does that mean, Doctor?”
“It means that it could be cancer. I’d like to do a biopsy. We’ll call you on Monday to schedule.” Stunned, I dressed slowly. Not me! No way, not at 48. Life was really just beginning for me. All the really good things were just starting to happen. As I drove home that day, I resolved not to let the morning’s events interfere with my Chicago weekend with my daughter. But try as I might over the next few days to forget, I felt that I had a new companion and I was not sure if it was welcome company.
Upon my return to St. Louis, the pace quickened. The biopsy indicated cancer. My husband of 24 years is a devoted man, but when it comes to being emotionally supportive in times of stress, leave him out. The kids, too, continued doing their own thing. I soon realized that if I were going to get through this “mess,” I would have to call upon all the inner strength for which we Irish women are so famous. And call upon it I did!
On July 8, 1992, the day of my 25th wedding anniversary, I was wheeled into surgery. I remember saying to my husband, “Well, Bob, some people get to go on cruises on their 25th anniversary, I get to have surgery!” The surgeon came into the room the following day to tell me there were two types of cancer cells present; one was an estrogen-based cell and the other was a very aggressive cell. I knew then I had met my match, but I refused to go down without a fight!
My recuperation was very painful. I couldn’t sleep. The pain was incessant. Nor was I able to move my arm. Slowly, very slowly, I began taking charge. I located a physical therapist who gave me exercises to work the arm muscles, I met with a nutritionist to discuss a better diet, and I prepared myself for the radiation therapy that was soon to come.
Crazy as it may sound, the day after I came home, I went to the backyard and began to put in a new sidewalk. Each day, with one arm, I filled buckets with pieces of concrete. I had to test myself. I set goals for myself and worked to achieve them. After all, I had a teaching position to return to in a few weeks and wasn’t going to let cancer stop me.
I took radiation therapy every afternoon following a full day of teaching. I tried hard not to miss any work during that time period. I didn’t want my colleagues to think that because I had cancer, I was no longer a quality teacher. By October of 1992, I felt I had won the battle!
Then, early December found me back at the surgeon’s office for a checkup. We were chatting when he leaned over, touched my neck and said, “How long have you had this lump?” I said, “Oh, about a year. My regular doctor thinks it’s an arthritic nodule.” I noticed his frown as he suggested that it be removed. My family insisted that I take a day off and follow up on the doctor’s suggestion. Another biopsy, what a waste of time! Christmas was right around the corner and I was busy preparing for the holidays.
Once again, I was wheeled into surgery. This time, the diagnosis was thyroid cancer. More stitches, more therapy, more pain. I was down, but not out!
I recall in the solitude of my living room thinking that the first cancer was a fluke, but the
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