Felicia Mitchell, retired from college teaching, is a poet and writer who makes her home in southwestern Virginia. She is a survivor of stage 2b HER2-positive breast cancer diagnosed in 2010. Website: 

Felicia Mitchell

Felicia Mitchell is a survivor of stage 2b HER2-positive breast cancer diagnosed in 2010. Catch up on all of 

I am not sure if it is because I added a scoop of caffeinated coffee to my two decaffeinated scoops or if I am trying to distract myself. Likely it is a combination of both. Plus, it is spring. Spring cleaning happens. As a breast cancer survivor facing a series of tests to explore an unexpected change in my body, I have never cleaned as much as I have these past few weeks.

Scanxiety, while something survivors experience, is not what has preoccupied me most. In fact, after one of the scans, I let go of some anxiety about whatever will unfold, ordinary or not, with the process of exploring what is up with this medical glitch. Bring the scans on! They will give me clarity of mind and let me (or doctors) fix anything that needs to be fixed, if something needs to be fixed, or just let what is happening go for the time being.

Life after cancer truly is a joy. To be realistic, though, it comes with some challenges to be mindful of side effects of treatment, potential side effects of treatment, potential metastases, new developments, etc. While I have gotten pretty good about taking some of the emotions of surviving cancer in stride, I am a mere mortal. As much as I try to be positive, I have my moments.

With the current situation, before I jumped into spring cleaning with the energy of a person bound and determined to leave no corner cluttered, I did what we tend to do these days. I turned to Internet searches, including exchanges with artificial intelligence, as if I could find a clue there before my scans let me know the truth. I fell deep into the “what if” water. It could be this? It could be that? It could be anything, good or bad or in between.

The second stage was to spend less time on Internet searches and more time feeling upbeat and positive. I said to myself, “Well, you have been given an extra 15 years. Imagine that! You have lived a good life.” While contemplating a worst-case scenario, which probably happens to people who have never had cancer too, I began to feel serene, as if I was getting the emotional reaction over with before knowing I needed to have one.

The third stage was to feel at peace with whatever might come, even if that meant a return to the cancer center that I had just graduated from. Knowing the cancer center from front to back, I knew I could manage anything else I would ever have to manage, if I had to. This would not be, as they say, my first rodeo. I would be an old hand at whatever came. If it came. And would it? Most probably not. Still, when we are waiting for scans to unfold and share the appropriate information, our minds can go anywhere, even there (and by “there,” I mean “the end”).

Fortunately, between scans, I have moved to my favorite stage, the one in which I clean obsessively. One day I sawed up a large branch that smashed a dog pen. The next day I figured out how to dismantle the pen, bolt by bolt, pole by pole, to cart it to the recycling bin (all by myself) the same afternoon. I looked around the house. What next? The sunroom came first. Now my study is neater than ever. I am also a little embarrassed to admit I organized a few family heirlooms to pass down.

Meanwhile, I wait for the next scan, the one that will assure me that all is well, or not, whatever comes. Knowing I am in good company with other survivors who understand makes it all easier.

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Articles

Facing the uncertainty of potential cancer recurrence, a breast cancer survivor navigates the emotional landscape of "scanxiety" with a mix of proactive distraction and acceptance. While initially consumed by internet searches and "what if" scenarios, she transitions to a more positive outlook, appreciating the life she has lived. Embracing peace with whatever outcome may arise, she channels her energy into spring cleaning, finding solace in the process. The support of fellow survivors provides comfort as she awaits clarity from upcoming medical scans.

Survivors facing new medical concerns may fear the unknown, but perseverance is possible as they navigate unexpected challenges in their new normal.

Surviving Scans While Surviving Breast Cancer

An image that comes to mind when I think of my brother, John Henry, in his last days with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, is of him in his baseball cap; his hair was mostly gone, and his face and lips were swollen. There is no photograph, but the mind records what it records. This image has competed with childhood memories and photos taken before cancer ravaged his body. Now, since seeing a Polaroid taken not quite five months before he passed away, I have a new image residing in my head.

I wish I could say that this is a photo of him celebrating his last Christmas with us on a day that was one of the best holidays my parents orchestrated for their four children. I wish it were a photograph of him with classmates when he went camping on the South Carolina coast for the first and last time, loving his field trip with a biology class while recognizing he was not on this earth for long. I wish I could say it was taken by a friend one night when he went out to the movies for the last time. But there are no photos of these occasions.

John Henry lived a long time ago, before cell phones could easily document every move for a photo app or Facebook. Whereas I documented my cancer journey with photographs pre- and post-mastectomy, photographs of hair lost and hair found, and even photographs of pink socks on feet peeking out of a warm blanket given to me in the chemo infusion chair, John Henry did not document his journey, though we had cameras in the house. (We had tape recorders! Why did I not sit down and record him speaking some of his old-soul wisdom?)

Even when his face was swollen almost past recognition, John Henry went to class at the University of South Carolina. That biology class was his one last thread attaching him to the normalcy he sought when he was given a terminal diagnosis at 19 years old while serving in the Navy. I understand his lack of vanity, his zest for life. I still wonder about who was in that class and what lessons they all learned about resilience and hope from my brother. Did at least one of the students go on to medical school and study how to treat (or cure) cancer?

But before John Henry lost his hair, before his disease almost completely ravaged his body, he was what we would recognize as a handsome young man. His hair was jet black, like our father’s before he was bald. He had bushy eyebrows — a family feature. He came into his prime as a young adult in the 1970s, growing his hair out before it fell out because he had always wanted to. It never got a chance to get long, but it got shaggy. And he wore a mustache and beard.

The Polaroid another brother recently shared with me is a candid shot of John Henry with the ambience of a painting by Lucien Freud. He is reclining against our yellow hand-me-down couch, a red throw of patchwork plaids behind his back where he spent so much time, resting there. The curtains are drawn on the picture window, the outside world obscured. Wearing a blue checked flannel shirt and jeans, clothes that are by now a little loose on him, John Henry sits, sunglasses on his lap as if he just came in from outside.

And his hands. You can see both hands well, including the right hand that fed me my bottle years before, held tools for tinkering on his car, and later held our mother’s hand as he died. Strapped to his left wrist is a watch he bought when he joined the Navy, a diver’s watch my son refurbished and wears on special occasions. You can see his neck, which is a little swollen. You see his pallor. Most of all, though, you see those hazel eyes staring out at you above a patrician nose, just looking at you across the decades from a deep mortal space.

John Henry is not smiling, but he is not frowning, and these hazel eyes do everything to illustrate the notion that eyes are the window to the soul. I know I can see right into John Henry’s soul with this Polaroid, everything I never learned about what cancer meant to him revealed in this moment in time on a Polaroid on which our father wrote on the back, “John H., Dec. 11, 1975.”

The narrative reflects on the poignant memories of John Henry, a young man who battled Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Despite the lack of photographic documentation, vivid mental images capture his journey, resilience, and the impact of his illness. A recently discovered Polaroid offers a glimpse into his life, revealing his essence and the profound effect of cancer on his existence. The story underscores the importance of preserving memories and the enduring influence of those who face terminal illness with courage and dignity.

Years after losing my brother to Hodgkin’s lymphoma, I learned something about how he felt facing a terminal diagnosis by studying an old Polaroid. 

A Picture is Worth Ten Thousand Words When it Comes to Cancer

My relationship with lymphedema has been more complicated than my relationship with the mastectomy. While I am less stressed about managing lymphedema than I was when first diagnosed during cancer treatment, it has made me more self-conscious than having only one breast.

I should not complain. My lymphedema, despite the occasional lapse as with some overuse last summer and a bad weather moment the other day, is well managed. I have even over the years learned to let myself be seen in sleeveless shirts now and then, especially when I need to take off an overshirt on a hot summer day’s hike (but then I put it back on to avoid too much sun). I am who I am.

The other day, however, I experienced some self-pity when I had to scrape ice and snow from the car in 11-degree weather to get to a doctor’s appointment. My poor right hand grew numb immediately, despite gloves, so I got in the car and held it until it warmed up so I could get back out and finish scraping with only my left hand. Sitting in the car after that, I burst into tears.

Later in the day, feeling vulnerable, I decided to spend an hour in an antique barn I sometimes wander through to clear my head. Not a big shopper, I may buy gifts such as a children’s book published in 1945 or a tiny painted vase or a trinket to adorn a knitting project. Some days I just meander, lost in thought in this museum of the past.

Checking the jewelry cabinet for a pin that might complement a knitted cap, I found myself coveting a bracelet I had looked at many times and passed over. I am at an age when I do not need more jewelry and in fact donated the bulk of superfluous pieces to a charity thrift store. I do not need bracelets either because, if I want to wear one for a special occasion, I have a few that belonged to my mother.

This bracelet I had looked at many times was a scarab bracelet, something I wanted when I was a young woman but could not afford. Staring at it in mental recovery from the morning’s minor ordeal, I asked the clerk if I could try it on. I tried it on. Even though it cost $30, I could have spent it on something practical or a gift for somebody else, I bought it to give to myself for my 69th birthday. Of course, I Googled it too to see if $30 was reasonable; it was more than reasonable.

As soon as I got home, though, I realized that the bracelet would easily fall off my left hand, the hand that I always use for bracelets. No worries, I thought, going through a mental list of people I could give the bracelet to. Or I could donate it to a charity white elephant sale. Then I had a thought. The bracelet was so pretty. What if I tried it on my right and bigger wrist?

It fit like a glove on my lymphedema limb, though loose enough not to impede any lymph flow. So now, wearing it, I bask in the glow of something pretty to remind me of a silver lining I never wanted. When the beautiful scarab stones rest on my hand, I see them and not a hand that is impaired. I see a hand I have treated like a nagging reminder of cancer being honored with something beautiful. I begin to understand why some cancer survivors want tattoos.

My scarab bracelet goes with everything: jeans, leggings, whatever I put on, because it goes best with lymphedema. Best $30 for retail therapy I ever spent.

The narrative explores the emotional journey of living with lymphedema post-mastectomy, highlighting the complexities of self-image and acceptance. Despite managing the condition well, moments of vulnerability persist, as illustrated by a challenging winter day. A visit to an antique store leads to the purchase of a scarab bracelet, symbolizing self-compassion and acceptance. The bracelet, fitting perfectly on the affected limb, transforms a reminder of cancer into a source of beauty and empowerment, illustrating the therapeutic power of self-gifting and the importance of finding silver linings.

Buying a pretty bracelet was healing because it let me look at my lymphedema in a new light. 

Treating Lymphedema with a Simple Trinket

Sometimes the best advice you can give somebody dealing with cancer — from breast cancer, which I personally experienced, to the many kinds of cancer our family members and friends have experiened — is the simplest advice. Recently I found myself telling a friend with a new cancer diagnosis, “It is okay to cry.”

My friend, of course, knows that. In fact, we had shed some tears together just before I said it. But for some reason, I always want to say this out loud. Here it is again: “It is okay to cry.” Say it aloud. It is okay to cry. I should know. While I sometimes talk about my cancer days through rose-colored glasses, my journals remind me of how often I did cry.

Does this track record mean that I am an easy crier? Recently, I took a test offered within a “New York Times” article on crying entitled, “What Kind of Crier Are You?” The result of the test proclaimed, “You aren’t a crier, and that’s ok.” While explaining why I might not get as teary-eyed as others, especially women, it suggested that “it might be worth talking to a mental health professional to explore why.”

Well, I did speak with a mental health professional about crying when I was dealing with cancer because my crying got out of hand. We all should remember to seek help if crying will not stop. If we do not recognize the problem in ourselves, we have to hope our friends will notice and help us to seek relevant assistance. In my case, I told my breast cancer nurse navigator, and she got me connected with a therapist within a day. In that case, crying signified how depressed I became when I began processing my complicated year during the last days of treatment.

Now? Am I too bottled up? Not really. I think the problem with that survey, as interesting as it is, relates to the questions it asks. I did answer “yes” to important ones, I think, as in “Your neighbor has only months to live. Do you break down when he tells you?”

If a researcher wanted to ask what brings the tears on for me, I could provide a list of reasons, despite the fact that I can be stoic and clear-headed in a crisis. Here is a list of a few personal triggers, and by no means all triggers, in no particular order: a sappy “Reader’s Digest” story, losing electricity during an ice storm after returning from a chemo treatment, a marching band with trombones blaring, breaking a wrist, the death of a cat, the death of a dog, the accidental mowing of a rare plant I monitor by the Appalachian Trail and sad movies.

So, no, I do not think I need to seek professional help. I know how to cry. I just do not tend to cry when somebody gets a standing ovation or my home team wins the Super Bowl, among other things. That is the point of what I am trying to say here. Know your personal crying style. Figure it out based on your own triggers and needs. Anybody who has experienced cancer is going to have a unique crying style.

When and where should a survivor cry? In the arms of a friend sharing in your cancer diagnosis? In the bathtub after a mastectomy? In your car in the parking lot of the cancer center? On the phone with a friend as she is telling you she is now on hospice? On the phone with a friend dying of cancer who calls to say goodbye? At the grocery store, when you see a box of Moon Pies reminding you of your father, who died of complications of Parkinson’s disease and cancer? Every time you think of your brother who died young of cancer? Every time you speak your mother’s name? Or whenever you, so uniquely you, want to? You choose.

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Crying is a natural response to a cancer diagnosis, and acknowledging this can be comforting. Personal crying styles vary, influenced by individual triggers and experiences. While some may cry easily, others might not, and both are valid. It's crucial to recognize when crying becomes overwhelming and seek professional help if needed. Understanding one's unique emotional responses, especially after a cancer experience, is important. Crying can occur in various situations, and it's essential to allow oneself the freedom to express emotions authentically and without judgment.

Even stoics need to cry now and then. My advice from personal experience is this: it is okay to cry.

Felicia Mitchell

Surviving Scans While Surviving Breast Cancer

A Picture is Worth Ten Thousand Words When it Comes to Cancer

Treating Lymphedema with a Simple Trinket

When Cancer Makes You Cry, Cry It Out

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