A decade after breast cancer

By Michael Patrick O’Brien–

“You have breast cancer.”

I can still hear those somber words, spoken by a nurse to my wife Vicki (and me) in a small hospital conference room ten years ago this spring. I never imagined I would hear such words.

I was stunned, but not surprised. Through self-examination, Vicki had noticed a suspicious lump. She visited her nurse practitioner, who dismissed it. Vicki persisted, however, and insisted on a biopsy. When she saw the sober faces of the techs as they took it, she knew something was wrong. The hospital confirmed our concerns by setting up a meeting to discuss the results rather than just telling us over the phone.

After the nurse pronounced those dreaded diagnostic words, we had to make some immediate choices about options. We hashed them out with an oncologist and soon after Vicki opted for immediate surgery—called a lumpectomy—followed by some radiation therapy and chemo if needed.

The only thing more difficult than hearing the diagnosis spoken aloud was having to tell our three children (then middle school age, high school age, and college age) about it. We tried to be direct, but optimistic. Not wanting to burden others, however, we didn’t tell anyone else besides family. Yet, we did not issue a family gag order either, figuring the kids should be free to discuss it with whomever they thought might support or help them.

The outpatient surgery was set for March 30, 2010. After a brief chat with our female surgeon, in whom we had great faith, I sat in the waiting room alone (all three children stayed in school) not knowing what to expect. I thought I’d be just fine alone, but I was so grateful when our friend Connie Saccomanno showed up, unexpectedly, to sit and wait with me. Company really helped.

After a couple of hours, the surgeon reappeared. A drum rolled in my head as the doctor delivered the news—she had removed the tumor (which was close to the skin surface) with “good margins”—meaning no tumor tentacles were left behind. Better yet, there was no sign the cancer had metastasized, i.e. it had not spread somewhere else such as to a lymph node. This meant we could skip chemotherapy.

Vicki endured radiation treatments for two months, and I went with her to almost every session. Although less intrusive than the surgery, the radiation still was difficult—a drawn-out reminder that we had the “c-word.” Meanwhile, the children discussed the cancer diagnosis with some of their friends, and some of them told their parents (our friends) about it. 

Soon we were awash with support, meals, best wishes, prayers, offers of help, and any other coping device you could imagine. Our friends the Jones family hosted us for Easter 2010–it was a welcome bit of resurrection during a crucifying time. While conversing with those who supported us so well, I was surprised to learn how so many of them also had a loved one who had dealt (or was dealing) with cancer. I hate to admit it, but my misery really did love to know we had company.

On a warm early summer day in June 2010, Vicki grabbed a short rope and rang a bell at the clinic, signifying her “graduation” from radiation. As with the words that first initiated this unwelcome drama, I will never forget the happy clanging sound that ended it. 

In the decade that followed, there have been many ups and downs—and some other medical problems to confront—but the cancer has not returned. We feel blessed and lucky to mark ten years cancer-free, but the diagnosis lingers in other ways. Vicki gets regular cancer screenings, and I nag our two daughters to follow their mother’s good example and keep track of changes in their bodies.

It takes courage to face down cancer. Vicki found the tumor herself and persisted in getting treatment for it, effectively saving her own life. She endured numerous physical impositions and indignities, not to mention the emotional/mental duress that accompanies such awful circumstances. 

The rest of us helped, of course, but only as bit players on this particular life stage. Vicki gets the award for best performance in a leading role, and earns extra kudos for handling the whole situation with remarkable grace and dignity.

Oddly, on this 10th anniversary we also confront the coronavirus pandemic. The feelings, the fears, the dread—they are all familiar, all just as from a decade ago. At the same time, I have been reading a book called Monastic Practices, by former Utah Trappist monk Father Charles Cummings. He explains several monk practices, including sacred reading, mediation, prayer, work, living in community, and the night watch.

He also writes about how monks face the prospect of death: “Every significant loss, such as the loss of one’s youthful strength and health, the loss of family members or friends, the loss of cherished dreams and plans, the loss of ego-ambitions and self-image, is a little death. Each time we gracefully go through a little death-and-resurrection event in our life, we mature more into the person we are meant to be and are more prepared for our physical dying and rising at the end of this life.” (p. 196)

For the same reasons Father Charles outlines so well, with hindsight I may be a little more grateful for the “little death-and-resurrection event” in our life now than I was a decade ago. I have no doubt, however, about another form of gratitude—thank God Vicki is here to note this ten-year anniversary with me.

*Mike O’Brien is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. He is writing a book about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah.