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!

As Breast Cancer Awareness Month, also the anniversary of my mastectomy, arrived, I had a strange thought. What would my right breast be like now if it had not been removed? Thoughts flicker into our minds, so I let this one flit. Then I pondered why this thought was bubbling up from my subconscious mind.

When I was in tenth grade, I wrote a book report on Oscar Wilde’s “The Portrait of Dorian Gray.” Creative teenager that I was, I wrote in the voice of the portrait hidden in the attic, aging as its subject — Dorian Gray — remained youthful. This report, which I still have, is the first thing that popped into my mind when I began to feel whimsical about my missing breast.

That is because, thanks to modern medicine including chemotherapy, radiation and a monoclonal antibody, I get to age. Unlike Dorian Gray, though, I love getting old(er) by the year. The human body is a magical place to reside, especially after surviving cancer makes you value it more. I watch my skin change, my eyes, my hair, the veins in my legs. With medical monitoring, I sometimes get a peek inside the infrastructure that keeps me going. I am definitely aging.

When some women age, their breasts droop. Mine does. In fact, it has become more noticeable with age, this lone asymmetrical breast I am satisfied with. A few more times a year, however, I find myself reaching for the prosthesis-embedded mastectomy bra when I wear certain outfits. Whereas I used to wear the prosthesis maybe once a year, if that, I have worn it four times this year.

What does that fashion choice mean? Do I long for a youthful (now aging) body that has two breasts? Why do I opt for an uncomfortable few hours to look like what I might have looked like without cancer? Tending to overthink most decisions, I have learned to talk back to such questions to understand the psychological reasons underneath them.

Losing a breast is nothing in the grand scheme of things, I realize, but with my fanciful mind, it makes sense to wonder how it would have aged. For example, my right breast was smaller than my left. What would gravity have done to it? Would it ever have matched its mate? Truly, I admit, it may not be my right breast I am really thinking about. I know my mind. Deep down, I believe, I must be missing that innocence we have before cancer: the “before” days, when we trust our bodies never to falter.

Sometimes I wish I could go to sleep and wake up with the usual health challenges that come with age as well as with a body that never knew breast cancer or the side effects it has bequeathed to me. Sometimes I wonder if wearing a prosthesis is my way of pretending I never had cancer, the body I present to the world contrasting with the portrait of a woman with cancer locked away in my mental attic for a day. Cancer invites the strangest musings, right? Fortunately, I accept reality with help from my rational brain.

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

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

For more news on cancer updates, research and education,

don’t forget to subscribe to CURE®’s newsletters here.

Articles

Breast cancer survivor Felicia Mitchell reflects on her mastectomy and the psychological impact of losing a breast. She draws parallels between her experience and Oscar Wilde's "The Portrait of Dorian Gray," appreciating the aging process despite her cancer journey. Mitchell discusses the occasional use of a prosthesis and the emotional complexities it brings, pondering whether it represents a longing for her pre-cancer self. Ultimately, she acknowledges the importance of accepting reality and valuing life post-cancer, while recognizing the unique musings cancer can provoke.

A breast cancer survivor reflects whimsically on how she might have aged with two breasts instead of one.

A Cancer Portrait Hidden in the Attic of My Mind

Welcome to a summer visit to my survivor’s yard! Many of the choices made regarding yard maintenance relate to my hopes to mitigate the risk of more cancer. 

I started paying closer attention to what goes on in this yard when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer years ago. Although opinions are mixed depending on the study, I read up on the effect of herbicides and pesticides on breast health and asked my husband not to use pesticides or herbicides ever again.

That request should have been the beginning of the end of a neatly kept lawn. Sometimes, though, a person will use pesticides or herbicides surreptitiously. After a divorce, not so much over the yard, weeds erupted with abandon. Once, when the invasive Japanese stilt weed felt overwhelming, I did seek some help. When a lawn worker arrived with herbicide, I asked him to leave. Since then, I have learned how to eradicate weeds more safely.

A more realistic goal, though, has been for me is to learn to coexist with this yard without worrying about the weeds so much. You can see here that it is possible to coexist with stilt grass, wild violets and other natural gems. The stilt grass still surrounds my house, creating a border between my yard and the woods where one gets a feel for Appalachian nature (including wild wintergreen, ghost plants and orchids), but it no longer upsets me.

While inviting you to see my yard with tolerant eyes, I admit I am learning to pull this weed out of those flower gardens by the house, especially now that I have found a method to suit up to do yard work without ending up with poison ivy. Look past it, though, to the ironweed flower volunteering by the front porch. Try to imagine the wild phlox I planted by the edge of the woods competing with the weeds that want to consume the yard. It could be worse.

Here we are on the lawn as we stroll through this yard. There is some grass in it somewhere. Since I eschew yard herbicides, these can be found: Japanese clover, Eastern wild indigo, ground ivy, American plantain, common yellow wood sorrel, stilt grass, purple crown vetch, dandelions, wild violets, white avens, Virginia Creeper and lemon balm that escaped a garden. Etcetera!

Early spring, I do not mow until dandelions go to seed as I welcome pollinators. Then I mow at the highest setting to protect blooming violets. Over the summer, I mow now and then. If I were mowing today as you walked you through the yard, you could listen to me talking to bees and butterflies. “Move, bee!” I am known to whisper. Autumn, I mulch the leaves where they fall and leave them to do what they do.

You might think the gardens edging the lawn look bland this time of year, save bright colors in pots. You will be happy to know that I am trying to bring more color next year to these patches of garden by combining both cultivars and wildflowers. Lately, late afternoon, I pick at the soil to prepare it for a fall planting of bee balm, milkweed and Joe Pye weed. You can see some of that effort over there in that patch of dirt in front of the Jerusalem artichoke plants deer have been nibbling. 

I also moved peonies out of a wildflower bed — look there where goldenrod is growing with coreopsis and sunflowers by the front steps — to the front of the yard where more sun falls. (Goldenrod is not ragweed!) Not so far from the transplanted peonies is a jungle of lilac trees, pokeweed, wild raspberries, phlox from my mother’s garden, stilt weed and more (including poison ivy). This area, which includes an American beauty berry off to the side, really is for the birds. Birds also love the berries on a greenbrier climbing my wild cherry tree.

You can see from our little visit how fortunate I am to live in a rural neighborhood where my mess of a yard can be a survivor-friendly, pollinator-friendly, bird-friendly human habitat. While it is too late for me to avoid past exposures to herbicides and pesticides, including the DDT so ubiquitous when I was a child and which might or might not have been implicated in a HER2 gene mutation perhaps associated with my mother’s exposure to it before I was born, it is not too late to avoid some toxins. Bless my weeds, every one!

The narrative explores a personal journey of transforming a yard into a cancer-conscious, eco-friendly space. Motivated by a family history of breast cancer, the author eliminates herbicides and pesticides, opting for natural weed management and embracing a diverse ecosystem. The yard becomes a haven for pollinators and birds, featuring native plants and wildflowers. The author reflects on the potential link between past pesticide exposure and cancer risk, emphasizing the importance of reducing toxin exposure. This experience underscores the value of creating a sustainable, health-conscious environment.

Many of the choices I've made regarding yard maintenance relate to my hopes to mitigate the risk of more cancer.

Welcome to a Survivor’s Yard 

I am thankful to retain so much of the child within me as I survive cancer, with changing seasons still wondrous. I love to shuffle my feet through fall leaves, marvel at birds at the feeder during a first snowfall, look for early spring ephemerals on a trail and let the summer sun and lush vegetation rejuvenate. Since cancer colored all seasons during my treatment, seasons helped to put emotional reactions to cancer into perspective.

Although a red flag was noted during a mammogram in late summer, it was not until fall that the full picture and treatment plan fell into place. Autumn, a season that symbolizes impermanence, was a good time for me to let go of a breast I had taken for granted. My first fall with cancer initiated a healing time as the season shared lessons about how to look past falling leaves and bare trees (and mastectomies) to greener days.

Winter, a time of symbolic hibernation, can take us deep into ourselves to gather emotional resources needed during hard times. Cancer, like hibernation, can bring with it an enforced rest time, even when we are working. I had to learn to accept the need to rest and hibernate a little as I tried to balance life, work, caregiving and my own treatment. Of course, I did not hibernate entirely. When I had to shovel snow from the driveway to get to treatment, I learned how strong I was as well as how to ask others to help me.

Spring, symbolizing renewal, reminds us of how nature itself is resurrection. During my cancer journey, flowers that had been dormant in the ground appeared to reward my belief in the certainty of seasons. It became easier to get outside for walks, essential to my mental health. By spring, I grew more accustomed to the routines of treatment. Because my mother’s hospice days spanned winter into spring, though, I continued to ponder life and death. When I exclaimed to my oncologist that I felt that my mother and I were mirror images, he said, “But you are going to get better.” I would, as a friend wrote to me, bloom again.

A joyful time of growth and sunny days, summer symbolizes gifts the earth can bring, from fresh and healthy vegetables to beautiful landscapes near or far. Although my summer with cancer was not easy, with radiation and continued Herceptin infusions as well as lymphedema, I found joy in knowing the cancer treatments were starting to bear symbolic fruit. Summer for those who teach or attend school also means a reprieve from routines. I cherished this respite as I enjoyed some summer fun, knowing healing was on the horizon.

The second autumn, despite the hope summer brought, was the worst time for me emotionally as the year started to weigh on me. The week after treatment ended, I sought help from a counselor to process my year. I let autumn remind me that the loss of both my mother and my old dog was part of life’s natural cycling. They had lived their long, good lives. Leaves fall, or tumors are excised, or loved ones pass away, and life (sometimes) goes on. (I say “sometimes” because many are given terminal diagnoses or pass away in fall, as is true of all seasons.) 

A lesson I have learned from thinking about the passing of the seasons is that even when life presents challenges such as juggling cancer with everyday challenges, the cycle of seasons reminds me of hope as I think of blessings fall, winter, spring and summer always bring.

Cancer survival can be deeply intertwined with the changing seasons, each offering unique lessons and perspectives. Autumn, symbolizing impermanence, helped in accepting loss and initiating healing. Winter, with its hibernation theme, taught the importance of rest and resilience. Spring, representing renewal, reinforced hope and the certainty of recovery. Summer, despite treatment challenges, symbolized growth and the fruition of healing efforts. The cyclical nature of seasons provided a framework for processing emotional reactions to cancer, reminding of life's continuity and the hope inherent in each season's blessings.

The symbolism of seasons helped me to put some challenges of my cancer journey into perspective. 

The Seasons of Cancer 

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.

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.

Felicia Mitchell

A Cancer Portrait Hidden in the Attic of My Mind

Welcome to a Survivor’s Yard

The Seasons of Cancer

Find Your Own Metaphors: Advice For Cancer Survivors

Latest News