Ordinary objects anchor me to post-cancer life
And, paperback of HEALING pubs--see pics below!
Two pairs of eyeglasses and a bracelet. It’s surprising, but those three ordinary objects are an important part of my breast cancer story, the part that started after active treatment was over. One might think I have said all there is to say about having breast cancer since I wrote an entire book about it. But there is more to tell because cancer stories are never really done. Now, five+ years out from diagnosis and disease-free, I want to tell a story I have not yet told, about how two pairs of glasses and a sterling silver bracelet became talismans of healing for me after my treatment finished.
As many of you know, I was diagnosed with stage I breast cancer in September 2017, had surgery and radiation treatment that fall, and started Tamoxifen on January 1, 2018. Later that spring, when the crush of fear and anxiety that came with the diagnosis had lessened, and after I had somewhat gotten used to being on Tamoxifen, I realized that I needed new glasses.
My prescription is pretty basic—distance vision and, now that I’m over fifty, help with reading close-up. So, bifocals, and I went where I always go: the eyeglass shop near the University of Pittsburgh campus, where the staff is kind and friendly and the glasses are bright and fun. I had my eye exam and then got to the enjoyable part of trying out frames. One set stood out for its built-in whimsy. The ends of the temples—the long sides of eyeglasses that fit over the ears—were shaped into and painted as high-heeled shoes.
Those tiny shoes spoke to me. Wearing those glasses, I thought, I will feel that part of me is always dancing. It’s true that the aqua frame complemented my blue eyes, and the frame’s shape matched the shape of my face, but the high heels were what sold me on the glasses. And sold is the appropriate word, because I paid more for that pair of eyeglasses than seemed prudent or even necessary, except I felt that I needed them, needed some built-in gaiety and silliness that I could take with me every single day after cancer. I even called them my I-had-cancer glasses, a label that people drew back from before seeing the tiny dancing heels at the ends of the frames and then smiling.
Five years later my mammogram was clear and I was officially released from active treatment except for a yearly scan. I suddenly wanted a new set of glasses. It had been five years, and my vision did seem to have gotten worse, but I also no longer wanted something I wore on my face every day to remind me of having cancer.
Back I went to the same shop, to be seen by the same eye doctor and fitted for glasses by another kind and friendly technician. I tried on multiple pairs, finally settling on a frame that looked pretty similar to my old pair of glasses, except brighter, more vibrant, and without dancing high heels at the ends of the temples. The frames are a deep blue that matches the blue in my eyes and the temples have a contrasting tortoiseshell pattern. They are glasses that stand out. I have trouble calling myself a “cancer survivor” because the phrase feels off somehow, but I like it that my new glasses announce to the world: Look! Here I am, surviving.
As part of that active surviving, and as many of you also know, my husband and twin daughters took a family vacation that summer, my “I had cancer and always wanted to go to Africa” trip. At the first camp we visited in Zambia we discovered that the wife of a British couple there was also a breast cancer patient. After dinner on their last night in camp the wife showed me her bracelet: a small sterling silver loop that spelled out, “Fuck cancer,” in Morse code.
My husband gave me the same bracelet this Christmas and I wear it pretty much every day. It’s delicate, but solid. I joke that rather than wearing my heart on my sleeve post-cancer, I keep it circled around my wrist. What’s funny is that I have no idea what the bracelet actually says. For all I know it reads, “Eat Turnips,” but I don’t want to look up the letters in Morse Code. What matters to me is that I learned about the bracelet unexpectedly from a fellow breast cancer patient while on the trip of a lifetime, a trip I might never have taken without having had cancer. And roughly a month after we got back from Africa, I got the mammography all clear.
The bracelet concentrates my feelings about breast cancer into one concise if vulgar phrase: “Fuck Cancer.” It expresses my anger at the disease and the U.S. Health care system, which I found surprisingly uncaring. The bracelet also reminds me, every single day, that I got through treatment. I will never be the same person I was before cancer, but I remain a loving living human being. I’m still a mother to my children, a wife to my husband, a friend, a writer, a teacher, a nurse. Survival is a gift. Every damn day is special. I did not understand that until I was five years out and clear.
A cancer diagnosis shatters one’s sense of ordinary life. The word itself has a pernicious aura because cancer is a scary disease even if, like me, you have a small, slow-growing, stage I tumor. Plus, I have a strong family history of breast cancer—including my maternal grandmother and three maternal aunts—so I have been afraid of breast cancer for most of my life.
In Healing I describe that fear as living in cancer’s long shadow. The question is how we return to the light following a breast cancer diagnosis. I would say, however you can. I wrote a book and was able to take a vacation that had been a lifelong dream. I also bought a meaningful set of eyeglasses, and five years later I bought another set, equally as meaningful. After I got the all-clear from my doctors, my husband gifted me a bracelet with a strong I-hate-cancer message.
The message of my two pairs of eyeglasses and bracelet may be that we figure out what having cancer means to each of us, and then we learn how to live with it. That is how we heal.
But also, meaning illuminates; it gives off light. My glasses and bracelet say to me every day: you survived. Those three special accoutrements of ordinary life penetrated cancer’s long shadow by telling me I am more than my illness, that I am still part of this world.
HEALING paperback launch event
I’m writing this, having just returned from my book event at Penguin Bookshop. It was a lot of fun. Many thanks to the friends who made the trek to Sewickley to attend the launch.
Remember that to promote HEALING you can…
Buy the book! Or gift Healing to…the nurses, doctors, EMTs, PTs, RTs, healthcare executives, patients, medical and nursing students in your life, or anyone who’s been frustrated by our health care system.
Snap a pic of Healing and share it on social media. You can tag me at @theresabrownrn2021 on Instagram and @TheresaBrown on Twitter. I’m also back on facebook as “Theresa Brown.”
Pick Healing for your book club. Invite me to join your book group virtually by sending a request through the contact page on my website (link HERE).
I appreciate all of you, my loyal readers! Share your comments below and remember that, as Nancy Zionts from the Jewish Healthcare Foundation pointed out at the book launch, it is possible to treat everyone we come in contact with with compassion. Being kind is never the wrong move.
Spring is coming—hugs to all,
Theresa
Really enjoyed this piece, Theresa. As a native New Yorker, we are encouraged to use the F-word as a noun, verb, adverb, and adjective in our daily parlance. As a doctor working in healthcare until my recent retirement, I found its use particularly relevant in navigating the maze of insurance issues and bureaucracy inherent in contemporary medical care. And what a delightful way to express yourself (in Morse code - brilliant!) while maintaining the decorum of an accomplished author...
I hope this comment makes you laugh and smile. And again, congratulations on hitting that 5 year milestone with great energy and nice glasses!
Thanks for sharing this part of a deeply personal journey; I got another clear PETscan in May and am now two years out from the initial dx of Merkel Cell carcinoma. Cancer does cast a long shadow, and it takes energy to stay positive. (New haircuts or browsing the racks at TJ Maxx help keep my sunny side up.)
Ditto remembering to be grateful; On the other side of the Commonwealth from you, I think I was lucky to have the team of four physicians from Perelman Center at UPenn, and their support staff. I was surprised that a big city hospital was as supportive and caring (I have cell numbers for two of the docs).
I am disappointed that cancer treatment hasn't advanced further, but there are some new treatments being tested, so maybe the folks coming behind us will have more options.
Cheers to you and I raise a middle finger to our4mutual foe.