Bonnie Annis is a breast cancer survivor, diagnosed in 2014 with stage 2b invasive ductal carcinoma with metastasis to the lymph nodes. She is an avid photographer, freelance writer/blogger, wife, mother and grandmother.

Bonnie Annis

Bonnie Annis is a breast cancer survivor, diagnosed in 2014 with stage 2b invasive ductal carcinoma with metastasis to the lymph nodes.

In 1965, a soap opera named Days of Our Lives aired. My mother thought it was amazing and soon became hooked on it. As a young child then, I often ended up watching the show with her during summers when school wasn’t in session. She and I would sit glued to the television set as the sands of the hourglass slowly passed down during the intro credits. And I think that’s how I was first introduced to the concept of time. Watching the sand descend, I realized time doesn’t last forever.

In 2014, I was reminded of that show when I received a diagnosis of breast cancer. That diagnosis brought things into perspective in a different way. Instead of an hourglass, it was more like a magnifying glass illuminating the life I wasn’t sure I was going to get to live. I took so much for granted before cancer. Each day I’d wake up assuming I had many more days of life ahead. Instead of being grateful I’d lived to see another sunrise, I got up, got busy, and never gave my blessings a thought. After cancer, it was vastly different. Cancer helped me realize I’m not promised tomorrow. The day I first realized that it hit like a freight train. I needed that jolt of reality. Now, there’s not a day I wake up that I don’t give thanks for another day of life. I don’t want to lose a single grain of sand from my allotted “sands of time.”

I’m 67 years old and at the time of this post, I’ve been alive for 24,721 days. How do I know that? I Googled it! Thanks to the internet we can find out trivial information like that, but to me, it’s not so trivial. I’ve written that number on my calendar today and plan to write down each succeeding number of life from this day forward.

I also Googled the number of days since my diagnosis. I was diagnosed with stage 2B invasive ductal carcinoma on June 5, 2014. I’ve lived 4,082 days since then, but the most amazing thing is the number of days I’ve lived days since the cancer was removed from my body, 4,048. To me, that’s a very significant thing. I plan to record the number of days I’ve lived post cancer because I count those as my gift of second life.

Counting days may seem silly to some, but for those who’ve experienced cancer and have been through the trauma of struggling with all the “what ifs” that come with a diagnosis, surety is important.

I don’t have an hourglass, like the one the soap opera used, but I’d sure like to have one. Instead, I have a small 5 minute one. The concept is the same – it’s used as a timer. I keep it on my desk at the base of my computer to remind me to take 5 minutes out of every day to express gratitude.

Another thing I do is keep a gratitude jar. On my kitchen counter is an antique Mason jar. It’s a beautiful shade of greenish blue. Beside it is a hand carved wooden bowl filled with multicolored strips of paper and a pen. Each day, I make a point of recording at least 3 things for which I’m thankful. At the end of the day, I’ll open the jar and reread all my blessings. It’s a great way to celebrate life post cancer. Recording things each day also helps remind me time is fleeting, and I shouldn’t take a single day for granted.

I often wonder how I missed understanding the importance of celebrating each day. That’s why I’m thankful cancer taught me to appreciate what I’ve been given.

It’s overwhelming to think a horrible disease could bring such a powerful gift into my life, but it did. I shudder to think where I’d be today had I not learned the importance of counting special days. I imagine I’d have forgotten about the show, “Days of Our Lives.” More than likely, I would have forgotten about sitting cross legged on the floor at my mother’s feet as we stared at the tube together watching those brilliant white grains of sand slowly making their way through the hourglass.

Time is precious, whether we count it in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, or years. Survivors often live counting time, that’s why we value every second we’re given. 

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective as a breast cancer survivor. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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Articles

A breast cancer survivor reflects on the profound impact of her diagnosis, drawing parallels between her experience and the passage of time symbolized by an hourglass. The diagnosis served as a wake-up call, prompting her to appreciate each day and embrace gratitude. She counts the days since her diagnosis and post-cancer life, viewing them as a gift. Through daily gratitude practices, she celebrates life and acknowledges the fleeting nature of time. The experience underscores the importance of valuing every moment and the unexpected gifts that can arise from adversity.

A diagnosis of breast cancer isn’t something most people would think of as a teacher, but sometimes important lessons come to us in unexpected ways. 

Breast Cancer Continues to Teach Me to Appreciate Life

I’ve always loved art. I can’t remember when I first picked up a crayon or a pencil and began making marks, but I’m sure I was very young and probably didn’t do it on paper. More than likely, since I was a precocious child, I made my first marks on a wall. Though young, I realized there was something about wielding a writing tool that I loved. From that moment on, I made my mark whenever and wherever I could.

As I grew older, I was introduced to other mediums. In school, we experimented with watercolors. They were inexpensive and easy to clean up. I think that’s why the teacher loved them so much. Dipping a brush in water gave me a power I hadn’t experienced before. At that moment, I realized I had a choice – I could pick any color I wanted from the palette of paints. Often, I chose the color red. Red was exciting and bold.

In elementary school, I wasn’t instructed in art per se; the teacher let us create without boundaries. It gave my young self a taste of creativity, and instantly, I fell in love. I wanted to be an artist.

When I was in high school, I never took art classes, even though they were available. I don’t know why I didn’t, but looking back, I should have. Art was so important to me. Whenever I was given an extracurricular project for a specific subject, I did my best to implement artistic license and often won blue ribbons for my work. Those accolades fueled my love of art, and I started to dabble in oil painting. Quickly, I found out oil paints were expensive, took a long time to dry, and required a great deal of effort to clean up, so I shifted to acrylic paints. They were inexpensive and dried quickly.

When I found out I had breast cancer, I was overwhelmed. I felt like I’d been sucker-punched, and all the air had been forced out of me. I did my best to process what I was feeling but found myself without words. That’s when art became my saving grace.

My oncologist told me there were some classes available at our local cancer treatment center. She encouraged me to check them out. After perusing the online calendar of events, I signed up for an art therapy class. I had no idea what that entailed, but since art was involved, I assumed I’d enjoy it.

At the first class, there was a table in the middle of the room. On it were tubes of acrylic paints, brushes, containers of water and small canvases. About 8 women sat waiting for the teacher to tell us what to do. The teacher was an art therapist, but she said she wasn’t there to guide us in making art; she would supply materials, and we’d be given free rein.

Many of the women had no idea where to begin and just sat there, but I was eager to get started. I picked up a brush, some paints and began working. I loved feeling the smooth paint streak across the textured canvas. I didn’t have an image in mind as I painted; I merely made marks and enjoyed making them. The teacher talked as participants worked. She explained that the art therapy class was structured to provide a safe place for expressing our thoughts, emotions and feelings. She said there would be no judgment and no expectations. We were simply to allow ourselves the freedom to create.

For about an hour and a half, I worked. Before I knew it, class was over, and it was time to head home. As I packed up to leave, I realized I hadn’t thought about cancer once since I’d been painting.

When I got home, I looked at the piece of art I’d created. It was an abstract painting. Abstract paintings differ from realistic paintings. Realistic paintings convey an artistic rendition of a real-life object, person, or scene. Abstract paintings are a combination of brush strokes, textures, and colors. Some don’t understand abstract art and say they can’t make sense of it. Though I have painted realistic paintings, I prefer abstract art because it allows me to escape the ideal of perfection associated with realistic art.

Art has been good medicine for me since my diagnosis of breast cancer. When first diagnosed, I couldn’t express all the emotions I was feeling. I did my best to write in a journal but often found myself at a loss for words. It was too challenging to find words that expressed my feelings.

With art, I can stand in front of a blank canvas and within minutes, my brush is dancing across it, putting down paint. As I work, my mind is quiet, my stress is reduced and I experience indescribable freedom. When I complete work, I find my self-esteem has been boosted and I feel a sense of accomplishment and pride.

Art doesn’t have to be an expensive hobby. Creativity can take many forms. For the person with cancer, art therapy becomes a sort of pressure valve that releases pent-up feelings. In other words, it helps one externalize what’s inside.

Many cancer treatment centers offer free art therapy sessions for patients who are going through active treatment but also for those who’ve completed treatment. It’s a wonderful thing for cancer facilities to realize the importance of art as medicine.

I’m thankful art has been such an integral part of my life, and I plan on taking a healthy dose of it each day for the rest of my life.

Art has been a lifelong passion, providing solace and expression, especially after a breast cancer diagnosis. Initially exploring various mediums, the author found art therapy instrumental in processing emotions when words failed. Art therapy classes offered a non-judgmental space to create freely, reducing stress and enhancing self-esteem. Abstract art, in particular, allowed for emotional release without the constraints of realism. Many cancer centers offer art therapy, recognizing its therapeutic benefits. Art remains a vital, healing practice, offering a creative outlet and emotional relief for cancer patients.

After my diagnosis, I found a healing balm in an unexpected place. I never knew art would become so vital to my healing. 

Why Art Was Good Medicine for Me After a Breast Cancer Diagnosis

Recently, I watched a movie on the Angel Network called Breaking into Beautiful. It's the extraordinary story of Kim White, a young woman faced with a rare, aggressive form of cancer called adrenocortical carcinoma. It was both a heartbreaking and heartwarming story. As I watched the movie, I was dumbfounded at White's strength, courage, and determination. The movie documents her cancer fight through heartfelt videos and Instagram posts.

Throughout her 6-year battle, Kim never gave up hope. She did everything in her power to beat the disease, including agreeing to try clinical trials and risky surgical procedures. The movie was real and raw. That's what made me want to watch it.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2014, the same year as Kim, I did my best to share what I was going through with family and friends. I felt it was important to present a true and accurate picture of what living life with cancer was like. I never wanted to hide what I was going through and though my cancer was very different from Kim's, I still faced many very challenging battles.

I wrote a book about my journey and was surprised when some family and friends criticized me for being too open about my struggles. They felt some of the things I shared should've been kept behind closed doors, but I chose to share those intimate details in hopes of helping someone else. I felt it incumbent upon myself to do that.

I don't find myself thinking much about cancer these days. It's been 11 years since the day I heard, "You have cancer," so it's not an integral part of my life anymore. I do, however, like to read books about survivors or watch movies that share their stories. It's been interesting to see how each individual chooses to face the challenge of fighting the disease. Some choose to give it all they've got, like Kim White did, and others resign themselves to the fact that they're going to die from the disease, so they don't put up much of a fight.

Personally, I don't understand how someone wouldn't want to do everything in their power to fight. In my experience, cancer can't touch an indomitable spirit. 

Faith was a key element in my battle and in Ms. White's. It seemed to be the secret key that powered our resolve. Knowing God and God alone knew the number of days allotted us, allowed us to come to a form of acceptance. In essence, whatever happened, whether we lived or died, was going to be okay.

Right now, as I sit in my office, there's a large whiteboard on the wall. On it, I record daily prayer needs. Currently, there are a dozen specific needs, each shared with me via phone, text, or social media. Of those twelve requests, 7 are for people struggling with different types of cancer. Most of those people fall into the 30–45-year-old age group, and that makes me so sad. It seems they're in the prime of life and should be enjoying life with sheer abandon instead of fighting diligently each day to survive.

Kim White only lived to be 32. She was a daughter, wife, and mother. In between her various treatments, the movie showed Kim's determination to grab every ounce of gusto she could from life. She wasn't about to just roll over and die.

As the movie covered her cancer journey, the physical devastation to her body became more and more evident, but each time she endured treatment, she seemed to rebound. During those times of recovery, she went hiking, rock climbing, snowboarding, and swimming. She was determined to squeeze every good moment out of every day she was given. In one scene of the movie, Kim is shown with a shorn head traveling down a slip and slide with her young daughter. Her frail body clings tightly to the love of her life as she squeals with glee. When I watched that scene, it did something to me. It made me realize, even on the best days of my life, when I'm not struggling with any health issues, I don't live like that.

Health is something many take for granted, and I'll admit, until I was diagnosed with cancer, I did the same. Cancer was a huge wake-up call for me. It made me realize life is short, and I never know when my number will be up.

Since watching the movie Breaking into Beautiful, I've been reminded I'd better get busy living. Instead of letting each day pass in the typical mundane way, I want to live like Kim with exuberance and joy. I've realized cancer can only steal from you what you let it. If you allow it to steal your joy and hope, you have nothing left.

I'm so thankful to still be here 11 years post-diagnosis. Kim only had six years of life after finding out she had cancer. In March, I go back to the cancer treatment center for my annual checkup. As I watch the day draw nearer and nearer on the calendar, I start to get this niggling feeling in the back of my mind: what if I face a recurrence? How would I respond to that news? I'd like to think I could be as determined and strong-willed as Kim was in her fight, but I'm not sure I would be.

My first (and hopefully last) go-round with cancer was difficult but not unbearable. Physically, I've pretty much recovered other than the challenge of lymphedema, an unexpected gift cancer left me after having lymph nodes removed. Mentally, I'm in a much better place now than I was 11 years ago, but there are still days I feel less than.

Spiritually, I feel like I'm stronger now than I was back then, and I can honestly say thank you to cancer for that, but it's been tough. No one can truly understand what it's like to fight cancer until they're in the midst of the battle, but watching real-life stories like Kim's can surely provide a heaping dose of reality. 

Kim lived a remarkable life, and her story will inspire many for years to come. I'm thankful she wanted to openly share her journey with the world. Who knows how many people, me included, will change the way they face each day because of her example.

Kim White's story, as depicted in the movie "Breaking into Beautiful," showcases her courageous battle with adrenocortical carcinoma, highlighting her resilience and determination to live life fully despite her diagnosis. Her journey, shared through personal videos and social media, serves as an inspiration to others facing similar challenges. The narrative emphasizes the importance of faith, hope, and the indomitable human spirit in the fight against cancer. It also reflects on the author's own experience with breast cancer, underscoring the transformative impact of such life-altering events.

Watching a true-life story about a woman’s battle with cancer has given me a new perspective on life. 

True Life Stories About Cancer Can Inspire Others

Normally, I’m not a negative person. In fact, I’m completely the opposite – a Pollyanna, always looking for the good in situations. That was the way I was long before cancer entered my life, but when I was diagnosed, things changed. I began to see little bits of negativity emerge.

When I was about halfway through radiation, my skin began to burn and peel. Little thoughts would creep in telling me I was going to be irreversibly scarred for life, that I wouldn’t be the same. I knew the surgical incisions would be with me forever and the radiation burns, too, but I wasn’t prepared for the mental scarring. A little voice started to tell me I wasn’t good enough, I was less than, and I started to listen. That was the first mistake. I should have known better.

Throughout recovery, I was bombarded with thoughts and emotions. I found myself focusing on problems and things I couldn’t do. I became frustrated and often found myself crying. I never said, “Woe is me,” out loud, though I felt like saying it. I wanted others to understand how I was feeling. I wanted them to grasp the overwhelming sadness of my situation, but who could understand looking in from the outside? The overwhelming feelings screamed, “It’s time for a pity party!” Guess who found herself going? Me.

The first pity party I attended didn’t last long. I shook it off and told myself I’d be okay. I thought I could handle it, but more invitations came – especially on days when I was tired or in physical pain. I quickly accepted the invitations and before I realized it, I was wallowing in a pit of despair, one so deep, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to climb out.

Instead of asking for help, I did some online research on ways to cope with feelings of hopelessness, doubt, and negativity. I found some good information and started to implement it.

The next time I felt down in the dumps and got an invitation, I decided to attend the party but only for a few minutes. I needed to validate my feelings, I thought, then I’d leave. It felt good to know I had the power to choose the length of time I attended. After realizing that, I found how easy it was to shift my focus to something else, so I didn’t focus solely on my health issues. I could journal or take a walk. I could find healthy ways of moving through feelings without getting stuck in a never-ending cycle of self-pity.

I realized I had the power to choose how I’d react when those whispers of “No one cares about you,” came and it felt good. It wasn’t easy at first. It took practice, but limiting the time I felt sorry for myself was a good beginning.

To this day, eleven years post-diagnosis, I still get invitations to pity parties. I won’t lie, sometimes I accept them readily. I’ll sit in my closet and cry over my breastlessness, or the terrible heaviness lymphedema causes in my limbs, but then I tell myself, “That’s enough! Be thankful you’re alive!” And when I hear myself saying those words, I shake myself out of it, dry my tears, and get busy doing something productive.

Pity parties aren’t healthy. They’re downright dangerous and if you stay too long, you’ll more than likely regret it.

Parties are supposed to be fun, not filled with sadness and regret. If you receive an invitation to a pity party, respond with a fast no thank you. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.

Breast cancer can become a convenient excuse for many things, but please don’t let it extend invitations to pity parties. As a survivor, you’ve already proven you have the strength to overcome, don’t let whispered invitations to pity parties ruin that superpower.

A breast cancer survivor shares her journey of overcoming negativity and self-pity following her diagnosis. Initially, she struggled with feelings of inadequacy and despair, exacerbated by physical and emotional challenges during treatment. Through self-reflection and research, she learned to manage these emotions by limiting time spent dwelling on them and redirecting her focus to positive activities. Eleven years post-diagnosis, she acknowledges occasional lapses into self-pity but emphasizes the importance of gratitude and resilience. Her experience underscores the dangers of prolonged negativity and the power of choice in emotional responses.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I never dreamed I’d learn so many valuable life lessons along the way. 

Bonnie Annis

Breast Cancer Continues to Teach Me to Appreciate Life

Why Art Was Good Medicine for Me After a Breast Cancer Diagnosis

True Life Stories About Cancer Can Inspire Others

A Valuable Lesson I Learned While Living With Breast Cancer

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