I had a meeting yesterday with two of the women coordinating the Powerful Women Paving the Way Conference, and the other breast cancer survivor I’ll be speaking with at the event next Friday. We all talked for more than an hour together: me and the survivor sharing our stories with breast cancer. And although our stories are fairly different when it comes to our ages at diagnosis, the treatment we received, etc., there were many parallels. For example, we were diagnosed within a month of each other, and both had our final surgery in September of last year. We also both went to Paris and Italy within six months of each other. Even our messages are different – what we’ll be sharing at the conference next week. My message centers around planning my wedding while dealing with breast cancer, and using that struggle to come out on the other side to hopefully bring awareness to young women about breast cancer. I used my experiences to talk, to write, to share. And hers is a message, from her own breast cancer journey, about breast density, screenings and MRIs. We were both asked to speak together because we both have a unique story to share, but the conference also focuses on what we are doing now, after our battle, on the other side. How are we raising awareness? How are we making a difference? How our breast cancer fueled what we want to do. How it continues to drive our strength and passion. How we are “paving the way,” if you will, for other women, for other advances, for action.
This other survivor I had the pleasure of meeting yesterday is truly a remarkable woman. Not only is she passionate about her message and her mission, she is strong, secure, sure of herself. She knows what she wants to do with her experiences. She knows where her life is headed. A big difference between us is that she hasn’t spoke as openly about her breast cancer the way I have. She said sometimes she gets emotional talking about her experiences, and asked me if I do, too. I had to pause. I thought back to my first real “speaking debut” last June through The Moth, where I stood in front of an audience of about 200 people and revealed some of my biggest and most personal struggles and feelings without notes, and without a podium to protect me. How my implant became exposed during my bachelorette weekend. How I felt about getting married with only one breast. Completely and utterly vulnerable. In front of both family and friends, and complete strangers. It was empowering. It was one of the single best experiences of my life. But did I get emotional? Did I cry?
I think back to when I spoke at the “Paint it Pink” gymnastics meet, at the Pink Eve dinner, and at the end of the Pink Zone game. All incredibly empowering events. But I didn’t cry.
Those times I spoke stirred up a lot in me, mostly anxiety because speaking in front of people terrifies me. It also stirred up this feeling of penetrating strength. Here I was, sharing my story. Here I was, taking my experiences and telling them to people. Here I was, given this incredible opportunity to pass along a message of great importance to me. Here I was. I got to do this. I did this. I want to do it again. Strength. Power. And so many other feelings I can’t put a name to. But no crying.
As I was telling the women yesterday my story of how I found my lump and the process of my diagnosis, there was one tiny bit of the story that caused me to choke up, potentially marking the very first time I almost got teary-eyed telling someone else what had happened to me. Here I am, talking and writing and talking and writing about these deeply personal events and struggles. All the time. To friends and strangers. Yet, as I told these women about the day I had my fine needle aspiration, something felt tight in my chest.
I told them I had found the lump just a week or so earlier, and before any tests were done, even a mammogram, my doctor scheduled a fine needle aspiration for me, which is when a needle is inserted into the lump and fluid is pulled out and tested. This test, though painful, is fast and pretty conclusive. (This was the test that revealed my cancer: I got the results that following Monday, at 8 a.m., the morning of the first Passover Seder.)
I told the women that through what my doctors had told me, and through some research of my own, I had learned that if a breast lump is benign or filled with only fluid, often it will disappear, or get smaller, once a needle is inserted to it. During my needle aspiration, the doctor actually had to insert the needle in a second time because he couldn’t get enough fluid out the first time. So not only was the lump not a fluid-filled lump, it was hard.
I remember so clearly the doctor pulling out the needle the first time and bringing it over to his slides, and then saying he didn’t get enough of a sample and had to put it in again. I knew right then and there something was really, really wrong. I tried to ignore it. After all, what did I know about breast lumps? Just because I think something doesn’t make it true or untrue. I thought my lump was solid.
As I told the women that story something deep inside hurt. It was the feeling I had that day, knowing the lump was probably cancer. It was a feeling of despair, me thinking back to that day and knowing what it probably meant.
That was the first time, I can remember at least, I felt like I was going to cry when sharing my story.
Now, of course this is aside from all the crying I did, and still do, to family and friends throughout the process of my breast cancer journey. I share my emotions pretty regularly. But in telling that part of my story, something hard hit. Like a dark, cloudy, rubber ball laced with thorns. That’s how I felt when the doctor couldn’t get fluid out of my lump. I knew. And when I remember that I knew, it hurt.
It hurt because I was scared. It hurt because it didn’t make sense. It hurt because I was planning my wedding. It hurt because it was me.
Yesterday got me thinking. It’s true that speaking in public about my experiences do draw out a wide range of pretty powerful feelings, none of them are the crying type. Not that that’s a bad or good thing. For me, it’s how I deal. It’s my power-through-it. I compose myself and buckle down and speak because it is so important to me.
And my tears? They are everywhere else. They are when I read about or meet another breast cancer patient or survivor. They are when I see a cute puppy. They are during movies, TV shows and commercials. They are in my car during a song that evokes memories. They are during a bike ride. They are while I’m running. They are while I’m blogging. They are when I’m talking to friends and family. They are during a beautiful sunset. They are when I hear bad news. They are when something bad happens to someone else – a friend or stranger. They are when something good happens. They are when my wildest dreams come true.
Yes, it’s part of my personality. I’m emotional. I cry a lot. But those tears are also from my breast cancer. And they go everywhere, all the time. They are all around me.
I distribute them everywhere. They are a part of my life. They are a part of my past. They are a part of my healing.
