The Vow

My promise to help others with cancer

Five years ago today, I was rolling atop a gurney into a state of the art surgery theater at Memorial Sloan Kettering. The facility, located on Manhattan’s northeast edge, was stunning. Imagine a W Hotel entryway, cheery staff and tech touches that made everything easier, like an LED board that plotted my whereabouts for my family. It would have been nicer if I weren’t getting a mastectomy, but, unfortunately, I was.

The smile plastered on my face in the picture my husband took of us that day with my mother (patient and present) attests to my own anxiety over the whole event. I was shaking so much in pre-op that the nurses had to hold me in place while injecting me with drugs for the surgery. By the time I was in the amphitheater, I was calm enough to look around at all the video screens, equipment and what seemed like a legion of staff. It was truly impressive, and frankly it made me feel better just to see all of it. It’s what I imagine the inside of the space shuttle looks like. Sadly, we weren’t headed for the moon or mars.

Six hours later I was out of the operating room and would wake later that night to find myself in a dimly lit room bordered by curtains, not walls. A nurse, outside my room, attentive and kind helped me navigate this new world. He worked all night. I managed to pee on my own and took great pride in that small effort.

Seeing my mom and husband that next morning was a celebration. Possibly induced by the meds, I was ecstatic at the thought of going home. But that was just the beginning of my cancer journey. Another nine months of treatment followed, two surgeries, chemo and radiation. Wrapping my head around what was to follow wasn’t easy. I wasn’t used to goals that took quite so long to achieve and required so much resolve.

In fact, it was the afterward that was so very hard. I had to stay focused on treatment, not letting the fear, the lethargy, the constipation and pain get me down. Even after treatment, I sometimes find myself thrown back to that time. Invariably, I remember my promise. And, that’s what I am thinking about today on the fifth anniversary of my mastectomy. I must help others recover. See, I had been so very lucky. Yes, I had gotten sick, but I was treated in one of the best, if not the best medical facility in the country. My family stood by and cared for me. People were so generous with me. Even people I didn’t know. Perfect strangers offered help and support. For those reasons, I am obligated to help.

One small thing I am doing this week is putting together a basket of goodies for a good friend of our family that is being treated for testicular cancer. He’s been a godsend to my mother, a friend and frequent problem solver and fixer. More than that, he’s a husband and a father. So, I’m doing what I can, gathering the salves for mouth sores, ginger tea and candies, plus various other remedies. My favorite item is a sticker. It depicts a fist with its middle finger defiantly in the air. “F*$CK Cancer,” it says. Right on, I think.