Introduction

Hi, my name is Lisa and I am a cancer survivor.  Not just any cancer survivor, but a two-time cancer survivor!  As a matter of fact, I belong to three clubs:  the childhood cancer survivor club, young adult cancer survivor club and the breast cancer survivor club.  I didn’t want to belong to three clubs, but nobody asked me.  My initiation began when I was twelve. 

One hot summer day I was in my backyard, and had just climbed out of the swimming pool, bending over to grab my beach towel when my mom startled me by yelling “Lisa, bend over again!,” which I did and she walked over to me and rubbed my right shoulder blade with her hand.  She told me there was a lump about the size of a golf ball.  She said we needed to call my doctor. 

Dr. Hanley said it was most likely a cyst.  However, he did say it needed to be removed.  He referred me a surgeon with zero personality and an awful bedside manner.  Before I knew it the day had arrived.  I do not remember much about that day.  I know we arrived early and when we left the hospital it was daylight and my back hurt.  That was it!  Apparently, Dr. Shearer told my mom to bring me back to have my stiches removed.

Ten days later my mom and I arrived at Dr. Shearer’s office to have the stitches removed.  After he removed my stiches he told my mom that the pathology report came back and showed that my tumor was a sarcoma.  He quickly left the room as my mom looked at me and I said “mom, what is a sarcoma?”  My mom shrugged her shoulders and we left the office feeling confused as neither of us knew what a sarcoma was.

I do not remember the exact moment I learned I had cancer.  One would think hearing the news that you have cancer would stick in your mind forever, like you would remember every detail of the moment, like where you were, what you were wearing, what time of day it was.  Not me, I am a fan of denial.  What I do remember is my mom crying in the car.  One thing about my mom is that when she cries I cry and I do not even have to have a reason.  It has been that way as long as I can remember.  So, as I watched and heard her cry, I started to cry as well.

Next thing we did was go to Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles.  We had a consultation with the doctors there.  I recall my dad yelling at the doctors as we left the hospital.  He yelled “I will not accept that!”  I was told later he was replying to their suggestion that there was really nothing they could do to extend my five-year survival rate past 10%.  That is right, they told my parents that 12 other children were diagnosed with my rare sarcoma and none of them had lived past five years.  It made my parents angry and seeing my dad yell always filled me with dread.

Next stop Long Beach Memorial Hospital with Drs. Finklestein and Groncy where we had yet another consultation.   I do not remember anything they said that day except for the word camp.  They told me I would be able to attend a camp for children with cancer.  I never heard another word after that.  I was so excited to be able to go to camp.  As their mouths moved discussing boring things like survival rate, chemotherapy, 18 months and radiation, I asked myself when is camp, what will I pack, what will I do, what if nobody likes me?  My brain was absolutely thrilled with thoughts of camp.  I always wanted to attend a camp but my parents were so overprotective I was never given the option. 

Immediately following my doctor appointment, I went straight to the hospital for a week.  My mom lived an hour away and had two-year old twins.  I did not receive many visitors.  I called home every night in tears wondering when I could go home.  I did not know that my life was going to become hospital visits and chemotherapy for the next 18 months.  I did not know that my world would turn upside down and things would never be the same.  I never imagined that I would learn words like chemotherapy, broviac, Heparin, undifferentiated sarcoma, Thorazine, Adriamycin, etc.  I had no idea I would start learning to self-soothe and to hold my tears in, to be a “big girl” and to complain as little as possible.  That was the day of a new journey; one that was filled with good, bad, pain, happiness, loneliness, dread, fear and friends.  That was the first day of the rest of my life!

Scars and Appearance

I was thinking of cancer today which is not that unusual anymore.  I was actually reading a book that spoke about the changes that happen to our outsides, our physical appearance.  Besides the most obvious, hair loss, it was talking about scars.  My first cancer gave me the old-school Broviac catheter scar, the scar on my back/shoulder; the radiation burns, and then they thought the cancer spread to my lungs so there was another big scar.  By the time I was done with that cancer at 15, I had many scars and spent years ashamed of my body. 

Then, the second cancer came and along with it came a new catheter scar, a mastectomy scar and reconstruction surgery scars.  I was thinking, damn, yes I may have bigger boobs (trying to see the positive), but I am covered in scars!  I really didn’t know what to think of myself.  I looked okay in clothes but underneath was a lot of scars, and I felt insecure and hated my body for years. This affected me for a long time.

So what do we do with these sometimes not-so-subtle reminders of the wars we fought?  Some of us are lucky not to have the outside physical scars, but may instead carry the just as painful internal scars; many of us carry both.  The outside scars will always be with me; believe me I have checked with several plastic surgeons.  I have gone to many lengths to do away with my scars, I have kept them well covered, I have gone to the tattoo parlor to ask if they can be covered (the answer is no) and I have tried other creative ways to get rid of and/or hide them.  Unfortunately, there is no permanent remedy for their removal.  Therefore, the solution had to be to accept them; easier said than done.

I wish I could explain the exact moment that my self-image changed.  Not sure if it was a retreat I went to, the anti-depressant that I finally tried, or just age, but somewhere along the line I learned to accept them as a necessary part of me.  I cannot honestly say that I love the scars, but I can now see them as little miracles, each one necessary for the miracle of the life I have today.

So, now, I think differently about my self-image and the scars.  At the last retreat I went to I was one of many.  We all had the catheter scar just under our clavicle bones.  I was part of a tribe!  In addition, although I had always been girly on the inside I tended to be more of a tomboy on the outside, wearing baggy clothes and rarely in a dress.  Through my cancer experiences I have tapped into my femininity.  In the summer I am rarely found in anything but hippie skirts, flip-flops, toe-nail polish, girly, rhinestone shirts and in my new favorite color pink.  Pink!  I hated pink all my life!  All the sudden, I wish I could paint my whole house pink!  It is the color that makes me feel the best.  I also have grown my hair long.  It is the longest it has ever been and I love it.  In addition, I chose to add a few of my own scars to my body – tattoos of my choosing.  I intend to add a couple more very girly ones.  And oddly enough through the most recent cancer I found I love to dance!  I was always too self-conscious to do much of either. 

So yes, many of us carry our battle wounds but they do not need to define us.  Today I carry them proudly and no longer need to hide who I am.  This has helped me tap into a more authentic me.  I am happier and way more secure.  Somewhere along this path I turned more girly than ever, scars and all!  I love being a cancer survivor and being a girl J