A sixth-generation Texan from San Antonio, Doris Helene White earned a B.A. from Central State University in Ohio (an historically black institution) and a juris doctorate from Boston University School of Law. Her career in the government sector as a Massachusetts trial attorney reaffirmed her commitment to an equitable legal system. Retired in 2014, Doris returned home, where she indulged a passion for writing, became an amateur advocate for the history of African Americans in these United States and continued active affiliation with San Antonio Black Lawyers Association, Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Jack and Jill of America, Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church and other community organizations. Husband Steven Soares, daughter Dr. Leigh Soares and son Steven Cooper Soares lead the best “cancer posse” in the galaxy!

Doris Helene White

A scene that always grips me depicts Death asking his mortal romantic interest to gaze into his eyes so that she might see his truest, immortal self. A look of abject horror slips across the young woman’s face as she and Death lock eyes. Then, the terror recedes and she resumes their conversation, although she seems shaken by what she saw in the depths of Pitts’ eyes.

That moment of fear reflected on the young woman’s face may be a common occurrence for us who live with cancer. When I was first diagnosed in April 2023, I noticed the phenomenon when I told others about my cancer. And their reactions followed a similar pattern: first, a horrified widening of eyes; then, attempts at empathy; lastly, a hug or encouraging words would be shared. But, no matter the order of their responses, there was always this unspoken issue lingering along the edges of the encounter: the specter of Death or at least thoughts of dying hovered unspoken. 

I gave much thought to such reactions last year during my first rounds of radiation and chemotherapy. It became apparent that my dear family and friends were not even aware of their behavior. And then it came to me that such responses might very well be primordial, harking back to our human origins. Perhaps a fear of death has been encoded upon our brains. Maybe folks were not afraid of me or my disease; maybe they just recoiled from the reminder of their own mortality. And since so many people erroneously assume a cancer diagnosis is an automatic death sentence — and sooner — I decided my unsuspecting listeners could be forgiven. More importantly, I would walk this journey openly, demonstrating that cancer did not have to rob me of life’s joys.

I have always been curious about death, but never afraid of it. Much of that attitude is due to my particular background. Dad was a licensed mortician, having earned his credentials at the University of Minnesota, where he joined Mom in the 1940’s after World War II. We knew that he was in the business of caring for the deceased and preparing them for funeral rituals. (As long as nobody asked me and my sister to join that particular profession, we were cool with it!) And we were familiar with the dusty bottles of embalming fluid that used to clutter the garage back in the 1960’s. Death could not be frightening if Daddy dealt with it.

And my mother’s views of mortality were reflective of the cultural roux of Judeo-Christian principles mixed with customs brought across the Atlantic from African homelands. She taught her daughters that death was not an ending, but a joyous home going. Mom repeated the imagery often taught in Sunday School: a crowded gathering of ancestors waiting on the banks of the Jordan River, jubilantly welcoming the newly deceased loved one to Paradise. We would pass from this mortal life to immortality in the next. We would rejoice for that reality.

My journey along this road of recurrence since this summer has been physically difficult. The uterine serous metastasis caused painful abdominal discomfort, intestinal disturbances and the loss of 20-30 pounds. The new treatment regimen worked out with my oncologist appears to be pummeling those malignant cells into submission, as my tumor markers have dropped greatly, there is little or no discomfort and my weight is inching up consistently. Yet, through it all, I have not doubted that I will awaken the next day. While I cannot know the divine plan for my lifespan, my goal is to live each day as fully as possible until I no longer live. Quality of life is an important issue for me.

So, very much like that Brad Pitt flick, where the young woman wisely refuses Death’s offer to join his immortal realm, I refuse to be consumed with thoughts of dying. Every human alive today will one day not be here. Demographics inform us that cancer is not the only cause of death in these United States. Indeed, your bathroom could be the scene of your demise. So, instead of focusing on my ultimate end, I opt to rejoice in every step along this road. If all goes well, I will see my grandson grow, my daughter and son continue their own intriguing lives and my husband of 40 years continue to play piano serenades for me.

I will never be afraid of death. Indeed, I smile at the thought of those ancestors waiting along that distant shore, waving me forward with shouts of joy and welcome. Then, I will certainly know I am home.

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In one of my favorite movies featuring Brad Pitt, the actor plays the role of Death, who comes to earth in human form.  

Cancer And The Dance With Death 

When I was a schoolgirl here in Texas back in the 1960’s, one of my favorite class assignments was usually doled out in September. The usual excitement surrounding new classroom, new teacher and new friends was augmented by the prospect of writing that quintessential essay: what I did this summer. How I enjoyed preparing for that pouring out of my thoughts onto paper (usually with No. 2 pencil), the joy of a girl who dreamed of becoming a poet or novelist or journalist. I would expound for paragraphs about driving on family vacation to the sorority conventions Mom attended or sights along rural, Texas roadways as we motored to funerals for Daddy’s kinfolks. Sometimes the essay featured recaps of sewing classes or summer enrichment programs participated in by my big sister and me. Here’s what I would write today:

This summer, I made certain to spend quality time with my family. From babysitting our toddler grandson in Mississippi to hanging out with my daughter and son on a relaxing weekend, my husband and I were determined to reaffirm our connections to the young’uns we had nurtured all those years. We also wanted them to have good memories of me as I journeyed through cancer, so they could see I was not curled up in a corner, merely awaiting Death’s siren call. They would witness that I was prepared to go kicking and screaming all the way! I also kept up with relatives and friends far away so they, too, would know I cherished the connection.

This too-hot summer, I started a support group at my local church for those who walk this cancer road. My experiences with support groups across the nation via Zoom have been extremely positive and cathartic. I realized one day that many of my church members —Black, predominantly female and over 40—were not connected to such therapeutic resources, and yet they confronted the same issues that most cancer patients/survivors/caregivers faced with far fewer safety nets. The one solution I could offer was providing a safe space for us to interact and share. Thankfully, the new minister assigned to our congregation is an enthusiastic, compassionate young clergyman who understands the unique needs of an aging, underserved flock. He did not hesitate to lend his support to the idea. And I feel as if I have done my small part to advocate for other cancer patients in my community.

During this 66th summer season, I have confronted the stark reality of metastatic cancer while maintaining my drive to survive this battle. I was deemed NED in late January, yet six months later, digestive disturbances, decreased appetite, bloating and abdominal pains signaled something was amiss. Indeed, a scan revealed the return of my synchronous uterine serous malignancy, but this time to my peritoneum. (My cervical cancer has not returned) Two rather weird procedures to drain the abdominal fluid build-up (definitely not a process I plan to consent to do ever again!) were eerily reminiscent of a scene from the old black-and-white Frankenstein flick, with tubes running from my tummy to beakers filled with discolored liquid. And I lost 20 pounds and 5 dress sizes, triggering family and friends to suspect the worst despite my assurances that I am still ready to do battle.

Thanks to my pro-active oncologist, I started a new treatment regimen immediately after the diagnosis, daily oral chemotherapy pills and immunotherapy every three weeks has become my routine. I am gaining about one pound weekly and my doctor prescribed an appetite stimulant. Abdominal pain has greatly diminished, I can eat with much less discomfort and physical exertion is less weakening. As I explain to others, I am on the journey I first began in April 2022; this is just a fork in that same road.

What I did this summer resulted in some very key life lessons. I reassured my husband, children and cancer posse that it ain’t ever over until it ends; until then, this warrior trudges on down the road. I also discovered that even the smallest step forward is progress and my church community deserves every move to resolve health inequities. Most importantly, this summer’s travails revealed the true nature of the journey we cancer patients make every struggle should not be seen as a set-back. Indeed, I continue to awaken each morning to don God’s impenetrable armor, to lift up the prayers of those who support me and to bravely plod on over the next crest, down through the next valley along the road.

I always enjoyed writing about my summers, but this is what I would write today.

My Summer While Navigating Cancer

Now that summer is here and I am nearly half a year beyond the rigors of chemotherapy, I wish I could tell you that life has resumed its previous, pre-diagnoses rhythms. Folks probably think I have returned to the schedule I had adopted since retiring: library browsing; sorority meetings; church activities; daily chats with my married daughter; texting about sports championships with my son; watching 1950s westerns on television with hubby. Most folks probably assume my life has returned to “normal” since I rang that bell.

Normalcy has a new definition for me. Daily rhythms bounce to a new beat. I nap spontaneously and find myself sometimes fatigued from walking through big box stores. This body that was biopsied in April 2022 is rather different in 2023 after radiation and chemotherapy. My new, short ‘fro frames a leaner face. I lost at least two dress sizes without any effort and, if I inhale deeply, I can see ribs not visible since high school. Can I just tell you that my feet finally feel less like clumsy, numbed blocks and more like the toes and soles I have known and loved? My balance is improving and I even occasionally brave high heels for church or social events.

Perhaps the most unexpected and disorienting facet of this new normal revolves around food. While enduring the lack of functional taste buds during chemo treatments last fall and winter, I prayed for the day when chemo cocktails were no longer needed, and I could resume meals and beverages with gusto. How grateful I knew I would be when water no longer tasted like bland carboard and when my stomach would shout for glee to welcome mashed potatoes, Tex-Mex dishes and yummy desserts again! I suspected my diabetic menu would be on hold for a short time while I pigged out on the savory goodies I had been missing for months.

My relationship to food has been disturbingly altered. While I am happy to report the taste buds are back to optimal functioning, my desire to eat has waned considerably. I can be hungry and eager for a meal, but when a full plate of food is placed before me, suddenly all cravings for food vanish. Poof! That bagel with cream cheese that I dreamed about all morning looks less appetizing when I start to bite into it. My stomach seems ready to rebel when I dive into those fish and chips hubby loves to order on Fridays. Salads and French fries prove less disastrous, but not by a large margin. Cold, carbonated beverages and hot tea seem to go down best. But who can survive on only diet drinks and Lipton with lemon slices?

But the issue goes way beyond the mere process of eating. After retiring and relocating to my Texas hometown, I took great pride in using favorite recipes passed down from my mother and sister to cook up mouth-watering creations. Lemon meringue pie, cornbread stuffing, baked macaroni and cheese, candied yams and 1-2-3-4 cake were just a few of my kitchen marvels. I would prep for days in anticipation of holiday gatherings, imagining sharing my cooking tips with future grandchildren. As most culinary historians agree, food is more than sustenance: food is culture, family and love served up on a plate.

These days, I have noticed a lack of excitement in reading through old cookbooks I have saved from my late mother. Where once I would mark pages to indicate recipes with delicious prospects, now I simply cringe at the thought of laboring so much to make a homemade pie crust or batch of yeast rolls. My lack of appetite has seemingly impacted my enthusiasm for the kitchen in general. The thought of toiling for days in that space to create family feasts for Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter seems distressing to me now, coupled with a nagging suspicion I would not be able to enjoy the meal at all. I now wonder whether I should hand the coveted chef’s cap over to my married daughter, her “foodie” husband and my son as sous chef to let them become the keepers of the foodways passed to future generations. Yet, I am not ready to give up the opportunity to have my grandson participate in an American rite of passage: raving about Nana’s cooking!

At my next appointment with my oncologist, I will discuss this whole food issue. I am eating smaller, more frequent meals and trying to recognize what foods whet my appetite (pot roast and chicken tenders!). I will not pass the spatula over to my young’uns just yet. Nana is still queen in her kitchen, even if she only smiles, watching everybody else eat….

While my taste buds have returned to normal after cancer treatment, my desire to cook and eat has not. 

The ‘New Normal’ of Food After Chemo

When I first stepped onto this cancer path last spring, I steeled myself for all of the rumored potholes: unrelenting fatigue; loss of appetite; debilitating nausea. I even suspected my eyebrows and eyelashes would become distant memories. Perhaps the most impactful side effect predicted was theloss of my thick, curly hair.

My beautician and I made a tentative timetable for how and when to completely shave my head. Last October, when clumps of hair clotted my comb or brush, we knew it was time to execute what I termed the “Wakanda Plan.” Afterwards, all was well as a shiny scalp greeted each glance in the mirror.

Now, some five months after ringing the bell at the treatment center, I continue along the road which has forked onto a path of surveillance. I draw some comfort from the clear PET scan (except for the benign growth on my pituitary gland — a story for another day), the encouraging bloodwork and uneventful pelvic exams. And it is so very good to savor favorite foods and beverages once more. While scheduled appointments to flush my chest port were unexpected, I can adjust to those inconveniences.

What has completely upended my comfort in ways I had not foreseen is the return of my natural curls. Gone is the pale stubble atop my noggin; it providedvery little warmth during the winter months yet was a familiar growth. Where the mirror once reflected the smooth contours of what I considered a well-formed skull, salt-and-pepper strands emerged by March. My hair oddly resembled that of my grandson when he was born shortly before my diagnosis: a silky, dark covering. By May, my God-given, African DNA had kicked in, curling those downy strands into a gray-streaked thicket. With the reanimation of my hair follicles has come a new and somewhat unsettling dilemma.

I gloried in my bald head. Yes, I did! This retired sistah took pride in bearing her cancer treatment (the results thereof) to all the world. I refused to cover up with headgear unless chilly weather dictated otherwise. Sporting the funkiest costume jewelry available and my natural-born drama-queen tendencies, I boldly invited the averted eyes of adults and the blatant ogling of children. My baldness triggered interesting conversations with friends and strangers alike and I happily shared tidbits of my cancer story, seeking to undertake my own educational advocacy on a personal level.

Since I’m not devoid of scalp hair anymore, my status as a cancer patient is no longer readily apparent to the public. My weightloss could easily be attributed to some radical fad diet. Occasional unsteadiness on my feet and a penchant for frequent naps might make others suspect different health issues or simply an ageing physique. For the past year, I have made peace with the rigors of my health journey. I have willingly, eagerly worn the big “C” on my head, encouraging a curious world to learn about my struggles along the way.

During recent moments of reflection, I grapple with this point: should I shave my new growth and resume my life with a bald head? A part of me sees shorn locks as a radical indictment of all the myths and fears accompanying a cancer diagnosis. I heartily reject the view that a woman’s worth somehow corelates to the length of her hair. As a Black woman, I know my head is an ideological fist thrust into the air — Wakanda as a political statement. On a more practical level, hairlessness also means no rollers, no trips to the beauty salon, no fear of rainy weather … a rather handysolution to myriad problems, as I see it.

Yet there are other considerations which are difficult to overlook. Maybe allowing my hair to regain its former length will help on-lookers understand that cancer does not have to rob you of every vestige of life before the errant cells went awry. While my millennial young’uns accept and champion my baldness (they tend to support any and all forms of political rebellion that challenge the Establishment), my husband prefers my longer hair style. And my beloved church hats fit better when I have hair as an anchor. 

I have not determined a final resolution. For now, I will permit long-dormant follicles to have their way. If Christmas finds a well-coifed Afro as my crown, so be it (after all, I came of age in the 1970s). Or I might take a razor to it all and be done with it.

Either way, no hairstyle can truly reveal to this world the nature of this journey I have made, the twists and turns leading to my current path. I will continue to tell my story to all and sundry, shining a light to illuminate any darkness ahead.

I lost my hair during cancer treatment, but now that it’s growing back, I no longer obviously look like a patient.   

Doris Helene White

Cancer And The Dance With Death

My Summer While Navigating Cancer

The ‘New Normal’ of Food After Chemo

Hair: A Bold, Bald Statement During Cancer

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