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 Felicia's blogs here!

Something that helped me during the healing year of my treatment for breast cancer was the way I framed the experience. I chose personal metaphors as I rejected common ones to stand up to cancer.

The other day, I saw a meme post on Facebook that we are supposed to copy and share in honor of a friend with cancer. It began, in all caps (shouting), “Please pray for me and my family as we deal with this difficult battle.” The post includes words like “difficult,” “have your back,” “fighting,” and another “battle.” Generic language just does not get at the uniqueness of each cancer journey.

Of course, I know that this word “journey” is not everybody’s word, and it is okay to reject “journey” if you need another metaphor. But as a college teacher who spent years explaining the journey motif to students, I found the word perfect for my circumstances. There are many ways to look at a journey. Sometimes it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Other times, life itself is a journey. As the haiku poet Basho said, “The journey is home.” It was thus possible with cancer for me to feel an end was in sight even as I embraced the moment of each day.

In my journey, although I know heroes like Odysseus battled on their journeys home, I rejected the metaphor of the battle. I did not want to think I was fighting and struggling. I grew up with Martin Luther King, Jr., as a hero and have always been a fan of passive resistance. I guess I am a little strange, but when somebody beat me brutally on the schoolgrounds when I was a teenager often bullied, I did not fight back. I accepted what was happening and forgave the person beating me as I tried to understand where she was coming from. Nonviolent resistance helped me with cancer too.

If I did not embrace the battle metaphor, what did work? After all, cancer was not a piece of cake. I could say I had a hard, as my mother taught me to say, row to hoe. Coming from an agrarian culture, perhaps it was easier for me to embrace that metaphor of labor and its relatives. In fact, another agricultural metaphor that made chemotherapy easier was “controlled burn.” I grew up witnessing controlled burns, which is when fire is used carefully to make crops grow better or something like that. In addition, I love to imagine the wild hollyhock that will not germinate until a symbiotic fire is ignited by a lightning strike or ecological burn. Chemo burned, but I believed it would make me bloom.

If the metaphor of a controlled burn helped me get through chemo, a more “out there” metaphor helped with radiation, which itself is a sort of burn. With radiation, my challenge was to make peace with the noisy linear accelerator releasing beams of radiation to my chest. I also had to get used to being pinned down, something I have hated since the time of the incident mentioned earlier. With chemo, I cuddled in my chair with hot tea and blanket. With radiation, I cuddled up to the metaphor of a magic dragon breathing a gentle fire.

Overall, the therapeutic experience of cancer treatment felt more like a successful negotiation at a peace summit for me rather than a battle. “Battle” may, of course, be just the word you need to describe your cancer experience. Before you opt in, however, think about your unique personality and words that mean the most to you.

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

Personal metaphors can significantly impact the healing process during cancer treatment. While common metaphors like "battle" may resonate with some, others may find solace in alternative imagery. The author, a breast cancer survivor, found the metaphor of a "journey" more fitting, aligning with her values of nonviolent resistance. Agricultural metaphors like "controlled burn" and imaginative ones like a "magic dragon" provided comfort during chemotherapy and radiation. Ultimately, choosing metaphors that align with one's personality and experiences can enhance the therapeutic experience of cancer treatment.

Creating our own metaphors to stand up to cancer can help with the healing journey; own words can give us a better sense of control.

Find Your Own Metaphors: Advice For Cancer Survivors

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

While cancer treatment, coupled with whatever life challenges may be present at the time, can be daunting, finding moments to sit with friends and family members, visit them, share stories, and laugh together is a great adjunctive form of therapy.

The other night, I met up with a group of women for a festive occasion with delicious summer food and drinks. The occasion? One of the group was going to start a round of radiation the next morning. As I sat on the porch, I was awed by the way this woman was approaching her treatment with courage and lightheartedness.

Wondering if similar social gatherings helped me, I began to remember small moments through my 14 months of treatment when social occasions lifted my spirits. I recalled how the weekend before I began treatment, a brother came to town and took me out to lunch at a famous farm-to-table restaurant. Later, after a meeting with my surgeon, a group of us gathered at a sidewalk café and spent hours talking about everyday life.

There were many other special social occasions. Friends and family members got me out for hikes, stopped by to visit, prayed over me, and generally worked hard to lift my spirits. My co-workers stopped by my office to chat, offering both distraction and encouragement. Sometimes the person who was driving me to the cancer center would take me out for lunch after chemo before I needed to rest. I deeply enjoyed those times.

A community that stepped in in unexpected ways, though, was my mother’s nursing home. My mother’s nursing home was also my “home away from home.” When we were diagnosed with breast cancer the same week, my first (hopefully last) and her second (which accompanied Alzheimer’s), aides and other workers went above and beyond to be sure that the two of us still could share meaningful quality time together.

As the challenging year progressed, and my mother entered hospice, more courtesies were extended to me to make our need to socialize with each other work. For example, during a week I was not allowed to enter the nursing home because of flu season, a hospice worker arranged for my mother to be bundled up and brought to the porch one sunny day. We celebrated my 55th birthday with a little dessert in the sun, laughing despite the difficult circumstances.

Then, during her last days, the nursing home arranged for me to visit with my mother in a private room to avoid being around many people (such a thoughtful courtesy) and we had such good times. Sometimes I would work on my laptop with her nearby. Other times, I would chatter on about this or that. We loved to give each other hugs and sit quietly in each other’s company. Both hospice services and the nursing home made each visit feel like a festive occasion.

Although modest, my moments of community support and socializing added up. I might have celebrated landmarks more, and regret not doing something special to mark the end of treatment, but I did the best I could juggling everything (my treatment, my mother’s last months, a divorce, a job) over the course of those months. If I have advice for others, especially those of us who live alone, it is to combine cancer treatment with special times with friends and family. Socializing with others can be considered a healthy habit just as essential to well-being as regular exercise.

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

Social interactions and community support can significantly enhance the emotional well-being of individuals undergoing cancer treatment. Personal experiences highlight the importance of spending quality time with friends and family, which can provide comfort and distraction from the challenges of treatment. The support from unexpected sources, such as a nursing home, can also play a crucial role in maintaining a positive outlook. Integrating social activities with treatment can be as vital to health as physical exercise, offering a holistic approach to managing the emotional aspects of cancer care.

Through cancer treatment, loss, as well as many life changes, I found healing in simple moments of community and laughter that lifted my spirit.

Finding Strength in Social Connections During Cancer Treatment

When I was undergoing treatment for breast cancer, hiking helped me. A month after my mastectomy, for example, I climbed Mt. Rogers, the highest mountain in Virginia, with a group of friends. I keep a photo of us in that autumn splendor on the mantel.

The hike to Mt. Rogers was feasible as I had begun hiking in earnest, solo and with friends, when I became my mother’s caregiver. Having time to myself helped me to juggle multiple roles. Just as much of my social life began to center around hiking, my interior life needed the trails for contemplative times in a natural setting.

After starting chemo, though, I knew I would have less energy to climb mountains. I made do with shorter hikes and casual walks. I also promised I would not walk alone and honored that promise until I finished the first phase of treatment. Since side effects of chemo included some neuropathy, fatigue and a crooked stride just after an infusion, walking through months of treatment took some getting used to mentally. Still, I continued to get outside as best I could.

My continued association with the natural world was bolstered by reassurance early on from my chemo oncologist. One of my favorite entries in my cancer journal not long after starting chemo says, “Met with Dr. D.: hiking is good. Blood work & kidney function good.” The journal otherwise contains meticulous notes about meetings with doctors, visits to the infusion center, or radiation. I wrote down advice such as “eat some red meat” or “let us know if you can’t get out of bed.” “Hiking is good” was in good company.

On the same day I wrote “hiking is good” in the cancer journal, I wrote this in my nightly journal: “Big chemo. Sort of wiped me out, but did go to Osaka’s with Guy [my son] and eat veg. sushi rolls and made baked chicken for supper. We had fun laughing. I was punchy and giggling again.” I could not walk in a straight line after chemo that day. The contrast between how I walked just sometimes and how I walked when I had enough energy to get out for a hike was dramatic. I needed that contrast to remind myself what I had in me.

In that nightly journal, where I continued to talk about hikes, I mention birds, including a beautiful hawk on a post. I describe a special afternoon at Fairy Stone State Park in Virginia. Comments on wildflowers and the camaraderie of the trail appear now and then. It was not always easy, but it was always beautiful, as I note in this entry: “Long walk off Blue Ridge Parkway. Not a lot of energy.” Energy waxed and waned. I especially love this entry about a good day: “Six-mile hike on AT — Bunny’s birthday! Made cardamom cake with rose petal buttercream frosting.”

I will be honest that I was emotionally and physically worn out at the end of treatment, a time when I was too often in tears. Just two days after I felt I had, according to my journal, “hit the bottom,” I tried a hike to cheer myself up. “Drove to Boone to Turchin Gallery and to hike but got tired and came home.” Fortunately, after the bottom fell out that week, I rallied with the help of friends, my son, and the great outdoors. My notes remind me: “Hiked at Backbone Rock while Guy ran — saw a Great Blue Heron on the way out.”

For some of us, there is nothing like being outdoors, infused by nature, while healing from cancer or the weight of the world. Hiking sustained me during 14 months of cancer treatment and continues to keep me happy.

Hiking played a crucial role in maintaining physical and emotional well-being during breast cancer treatment. Despite the challenges of chemotherapy, shorter hikes and walks provided a sense of normalcy and connection to nature. The support of friends, family, and healthcare professionals reinforced the positive impact of outdoor activities. Journaling captured the journey, highlighting the contrast between difficult days and moments of joy. Ultimately, the natural world offered solace and strength, helping to navigate the complexities of cancer treatment and recovery.

Hiking helped to sustain me through cancer treatment, with its emphasis on fresh air, natural wonders, and the companionship of friends. 

Hiking Through Breast Cancer Treatment

For years, I was curious about the smooth skin some friends have after surgery for breast cancer. I thought something was wrong with my body, specifically that it had not healed correctly after a modified radical mastectomy. What remains looks a little like a deflated breast with scar tissue instead of a nipple. Recently, organizing medical files, I found a notation about a “skin-sparing mastectomy” and looked that up online.

A skin-sparing mastectomy means that the surgeon, after removing the tumor(s) and related tissue, leaves some skin to facilitate reconstruction. Usually, this sort of procedure would be immediate, although I understand that a delayed reconstruction can be possible for women who opt for it many years later. I never wanted reconstruction, though, and was clear about that from the start of the conversations about treatment plans. Who knows how my choice fell through the cracks at the time?

I am okay with that. Still, upon learning that my right chest is primed for receiving an implant, I wondered if I should get one now, despite valid and rational reasons for never wanting to. I prefer to go au naturel, to be myself, which in this case means I am a one-breasted woman comfortable with asymmetry. Why, then, was I contemplating a hypothetical reconstruction just because my body was prepped for it? I guess just because I could. It is normal to imagine an alternate reality.

My current reality is fine. I am, in fact, approaching 70, used to the new normal. In the beginning, while I was working, I did dress to disguise my lopsided chest, with scarves or loose jackets and sweaters. I realized too that the color black is a great choice for camouflage. Eventually, it did not matter what I wore. I now go for complete comfort, except for the rare occasions I wear a prosthetic bra simply because sometimes it is fun to play dress-up and even just to blend in with a crowd.

The beanbag prosthesis, which shape-shifts, has always been more comfortable when I play-act. Now I know why my silicone prosthesis has never settled into my chest, even though it is a nice one (and will never wear out as I have only worn it a few times). I like the beanbag most and may buy another before I am 80 so I can have two bras at the ready (black, white). Finding out that there is a reason for my appearance also has helped me to stop comparing what I look like to what I once almost envied.

I do remain mystified that I ended up with a skin-sparing mastectomy rather than what is called, appropriately, an aesthetic flat closure. Perhaps during the days leading up to surgery I did not do enough research or make myself clear to my surgeon, whom I do not fault. In fact, my surgeon is my hero for going into what was first considered an in situ diagnosis and extricating two invasive tumors, lots of in situ tumors, and lymph nodes laden with cancer cells. She is my hero. My lesson for those considering mastectomies is to ask more questions in discussions leading up to surgery.

The extra tissue that remains now is aging with the rest of me. Sometimes my mastectomy site is uncomfortable. While a plastic surgeon could remedy the situation, I am not inclined to get cut on again unless I have to. I do think, because I wonder why this remaining tissue is not screened except in breast self-exams, I will follow up and ask my doctor at the annual breast check about the care and maintenance of any breast tissue that remains. Otherwise, I now accept what I look like and will stop comparing apples and oranges.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, 

The narrative reflects on the personal experience of living with the aftermath of a skin-sparing mastectomy, highlighting the initial confusion and eventual acceptance of the resulting asymmetry. The author discusses the decision against reconstruction, despite the body being prepared for it, and the comfort found in embracing a natural appearance. The importance of clear communication with healthcare providers and thorough research before surgery is emphasized. The author also contemplates the care of remaining breast tissue and the potential need for future medical consultations.

It took years to understand why my mastectomy site looked different. Knowing I healed correctly for my procedure helped me accept my new normal.

Felicia Mitchell

Find Your Own Metaphors: Advice For Cancer Survivors

Finding Strength in Social Connections During Cancer Treatment

Hiking Through Breast Cancer Treatment

Body Positivity After a Mastectomy: An Ongoing Quest

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