Three years ago this week I was diagnosed with Breast Cancer.  Teaching at “August Academy,” a two week summer session for students wanting to take the Advanced Placement track of classes, I started the morning off with a fun and physical activity.  I was on a roll!!  They liked me!  They were excited!  They couldn’t wait for school to start!  The best morning I’d had all summer!!  Ten o’clock.  Time for a break.

I glanced at my cell phone and saw that I had a message…Allina Clinic.  Just the day before I had gone for my annual mammogram. Okay…not so annual.  I always have my yearly physical in April near my birthday.  I had the physical, but didn’t remember to schedule the mammogram.  Even remembering to schedule it for early August was a fluke.  You see, I also taught two nights a week at the Diploma Center for our school district.  This three year stint was in addition to my full-time teaching position. Students who couldn’t finish high school for a variety of reasons spent months finishing up credits so they could move on with their lives with a Diploma in hand.

One night in June while pounding out the various strands of curriculum for a course, someone in the room asked me a question.  I looked away from the computer and everything turned blurry.  It took a while for my eyes to focus.  I answered the question and thought…wow…I haven’t had my eyes checked in ages.  Time to make an appointment.  And then…home…the incident evaporated from my brain.

A month later a similar event happened.  Typing away on the computer, I was again interrupted and again…everything blurry.  That was it.  I would call the clinic the next day and get my eyes checked…oh…and while I’m at it…I might as well get the mammogram.  I called and made both appointments back to back.

The following week I had my eyes checked first…ugh…the stinging yellow drops that make one look zombie-like and nearly blind resulted with “…things are fine.  Keep wearing the glasses you have.  No need to change yet.”  Then to radiology.  I checked in, was escorted to the changing room and then to the exam room.  It’s a miserable test and one that I quickly put behind me.  After all…they are always negative. Nothing to worry about.

“Marsha, this is the nurse from radiology. We need you to come in for an amplified mammogram. Can you come today?” And so it began.

At noon I drove to the clinic and went through the same ritual as before, only this time I was instructed to wait for the radiologist.  A very rotund and bearded doctor appeared who exuded kindness.  His gentle manner did comfort me as he showed me a small white tubular object embedded deep in the tissue of my breast showing up against the dark shadows of the x-ray.  The next few days are a blur of memories for me…the loud clunking of the MRI machine, lying on a hard metal table with my breast hanging through a hole for a space-age type of imaging, a meeting with my surgical team, and a teary lunch near the hospital with my daughter Ann.  Friends called and took me shopping, sailing, walking, crying, praying. And then, on the last day of my summer vacation…surgery.

Cancer is a malevolent thief.  He steals from everyone.  Over the years he stole my closest friend who suffered a brain tumor. Then, my sweet and loving mother was diagnosed with a rare type that attacked her cartilage and quickly metastasized to her lungs.  “Six months” instead became “six weeks” and we had to say goodbye.  He steals our loved ones, our peace of mind, our belief in immortality.  Cancer seems a distant memory now.  My dance with the fiend was quick.  Perhaps I was too boring a partner. He twirled me away from him as he grabbed the hand of someone with more pizzazz.

A lumpectomy means that part of the breast is removed which contains the suspect tissue.  In cancer speak…”my margins were clear.”  I asked my surgeon if I had waited until my birthday in April to get the mammogram, what would have been the result.  “Probably Stage 3.  Mastectomy…chemo…”  Simply because my eyes were giving me trouble and the mammogram was an afterthought, I escaped the ruthless clutches of the more advanced cancer.

I wore a large bandage around my torso for three days.  After the incision healed I began the daily trek to the cancer center in St. Paul for seven weeks of radiation.  My lunch hour was also my prep hour at school, so the time was enough…an hour and a half to make the drive and then to return to school for my afternoon classes.  I only missed 5 days of teaching during this.  My fair skin took on the red of a July tomato after a few weeks.  I wore heavy layers of “Vanni Cream” under silicon pads designed for burn victims which kept my blistered skin from touching my clothes.  My senior students rallied around me.  One girl named Jessica was related to a priest in Toronto…Father Andre… a man sainted by the Catholic Church for miracles of healing. She brought me a relic that contained a small part of his robe in acrylic on the back of a brass medallion.  Her family here and in Canada were praying for me. I still carry the relic with me.

My final treatment was on Veteran’s Day that November.  Each year our school hosts the local veterans’ groups to come for a ceremony.  The entire student body is packed into the gym, the veterans sit in a place of honor, and our ROTC conducts a moving ritual of solemn marching and salutes around a table set to honor those who died in the five branches of the service. The choir sings patriotic songs as the band plays along with vibrant drums, trumpets and piccolos.  I stood on the mezzanine that morning, listening to the words of the ceremony. I admired the precise movements of the ROTC,  their silver helmets, white gloves, blue uniforms.  And, I saw the pride of our respectful students as they stood honoring family members…grandpas, fathers, brothers, uncles, mothers, sisters… who served or are serving as a medley of the various service songs were played.  And then I noticed something else.  Many of the girls in the choir and band were wearing pink dresses or sweaters.  Many of the boys wore pink shirts or ties.  As my eyes scanned the bleachers, I saw that dozens of students were in pink t-shirts or sweatshirts.  I turned to a colleague and commented on that.  She smiled warmly at me and simply said, “They did it for you.”

When I returned that afternoon from my final treatment, I walked into my classroom.  It was festooned with pink streamers and balloons.  On my door was a beautiful poster that said, “Today you are completely radiant!”  I received a standing ovation, lots of hugs, lots of tears.  And then…life began to return to normal.

Three years go by quickly. I don’t think about cancer any more, but it did motivate me to live more authentically and appreciatively.   I’m more fit than anytime in my life.  I’m more happy than ever.  And…I feel a deep connection to those who hear the words…”we found something.”  Every person I’ve met seems to have a story of how cancer came and stole someone they cared about.  I don’t really have any profound words to share about being brave.  I grew tired of the words “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”  But, this I can say…if you have people in your life where the relationship is strained and could use some reconciling, figure out a way to do that.  I say the words “I love you” a lot more these days simply because one never knows if that is the last thing someone hears from me. I refuse to let the  cancer thief have another dance.  However, if he comes back, I plan to spit in his eye and spin to my own music for as long as I can.