The Psychological Burden of Cancer

August 2 marks my 10-year anniversary. 


That date was my last chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer. 


Before cancer, I was young, fit, and health-conscious. I was naively confident that if I were proactive in my health, I would avoid getting a serious ailment. Now, with a breast cancer diagnosis, I found myself in the fight for my life and so very ill from treatments.


After my last treatment, I stood up from the chemotherapy recliner and thought I was done with cancer. So did everyone else. My phone rang off the hook with calls of congratulations. I received yummy goodies, flowers, cards, gifts, and other celebratory communications. 


In addition, doctors enjoy doing follow-up appointments with me because they consider me a success story. Our conversations are light chit-chat. My doctors are excellent because although they are optimistic about my progress, they willingly address any fears I bring up to them.


Yet I still cannot rest easy. 


Cancer did not kill me, but it has permanently affected my psyche. How can it not? When chemotherapy ended, my coping attempts with cancer actually began. And I wasn't good at coping, for I simply couldn't process what had happened to me. I could not  easily re-enter the world of normalcy, whatever "normalcy" means. 


Ten years later, loved ones see me as the cancer conquerer. Ten years later, I know I'm much better emotionally, thanks to therapeutic techniques, but I know I can never be the same. 


Too many triggers. Too many mind games. Too much has happened during this last decade:


My friend who was supposed to be a breast cancer survivor had a recurrence and died. For about three years, I took her to almost all her chemo treatments. Now I don't have her anymore, and I feel survivor's guilt.


A few months after my friend died, an MRI detected something suspicious in my same breast previously affected by cancer. The fear was so agonizing. Lucky for me, a biopsy showed it was scar tissue. Unlucky for me, more fear was deposited in my fear bank.


I had three lumpectomies and a double mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction. First of all, ICU was sheer anguish. More fear in the fear bank. And negative body image. I was angry to have been reconstructed in plastic surgeons' image of what I should look like. I am grateful to all my doctors for doing such an excellent job, but coming to grips with my new torso has not been easy.


I must live with fear of recurrence or a new cancer. I try my best to cope with this.


Like so many patients in the cancer world, I have fear of facing doctors, as well as getting medical exams and tests.  At doctors' offices, I use a variety of coping tools, such as listening to music, sketching, reading a novel, and positive self-talk. I also list words describing me in order to feel more powerful in a situation where I really am quite vulnerable.


I've learned that cancer may leave one physically, but it always remains in one's psyche.


However, despite the fear, suffering, and pain, I have gained a lot of insight. I savor each day. All the small moments in life are really big moments to me. My daughter's smile. The sound of my friends' laughter. The nudge of my cats' good-morning greeting. 


And I realize that the depth of my cancer-related sorrow and grief is counterbalanced by the depth of joy I experience in these moments....every day.


I am finishing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.