Roberta Lombardi

I was diagnosed with breast cancer in September of 2016 after I found a lump during a routine self-exam. On some level, I was not surprised. My father died when I was 19 from lung cancer. My maternal grandmother battled breast cancer twice, my cousin died from colon cancer in her 40s, my maternal aunt died from breast cancer the year before my diagnosis, and the list goes on. I dare say that, subconsciously, I knew someday I would be that woman, the one in eight who gets breast cancer.

After the biopsy confirmed invasive breast cancer, I was given an appointment at the Breast Center at Yale’s Smilow Cancer Hospital. My husband and I met the doctors who would be my breast surgeon and my oncologist, the nursing team and the social worker who would advise us on how to break the news to our three daughters (then ages 14, 13 and 10). We left the hospital in a daze and pulled into our driveway that afternoon knowing the most difficult part of the day was ahead of us.

Our three girls greeted us with smiles, having no clue that their world was about to be turned upside down. We had told them nothing about my diagnosis, deciding to wait until we had seen doctors and had solid information. Now that a treatment plan was in place, we could no longer put it off. Having to tell my daughters that I had breast cancer was way more painful than getting the diagnosis. I remembered how scared I was at 17 when I learned my father had cancer. To my surprise, only my oldest had questions through her choked sobs. My middle daughter ran from the room and asked to be left alone for a while. My youngest looked at me with tears pouring down her face and asked, "Are you going to die?" I answered, "No, honey. It’s going to be a difficult road for a while and I may get sick from the treatment, but I am not going to die!" With that, she asked me not to talk about it.

That pretty much laid the groundwork for how my girls would handle the next year. I made sure they never saw me really sick. Once in treatment, I still made sure that, when they came home from school, I was waiting for them with a snack and a smile. I cooked dinner most nights and was up early to pack their lunches and drive them to school, regardless of how lousy I felt. But as treatment progressed, I watched my oldest daughter, then a freshman in high school, get that look of paralyzing fear when it was infusion day or test day. My middle daughter seemed uncomfortable around me from the beginning. And once I lost my hair, she had trouble looking me in the eyes when I walked around the house without a wig. Then there was my youngest, my sweet little girl trying to be a caregiver at 10 years old. “Come lay on the couch, Mommy, you are doing too much and I should be taking care of you,” she would say. I knew all too well that each of them was terrified and trying to handle their fears in different ways.

Seeing how they struggled made me remember how I dealt with my dad’s illness at 17. Ever the daddy’s girl, I was determined that he was going to get better because I was going to will it to be so, even though they told us his condition was so far gone it was untreatable. They gave him six months to live, but he was with us for a little more than a year. For a while, I was his caregiver, changing bandages because my mother was too weak in the stomach to look at his surgery wounds. I sat with him even when we did not say much, just to be near. Then his condition worsened, and I became so afraid of losing him that I found ways to busy myself so that I could avoid spending time with him. In my teenage mind, I thought I could get used to the idea of not having him if I just separated myself from him while he was still here. So, I took on extra shifts at work, stayed longer at the library, did anything to avoid going home. Thirty-three years later, I still wonder if he realized I wanted nothing more than to be with him every second, but was wrapped up in my grief and my fears and had no idea how I was going to go on without him.

My girls were not going to have to learn that lesson — not now. I was going to be put in remission and hopefully stay there. My husband looked forward to my treatment ending so that life could get back to normal. Yet, when it happened, nothing felt normal to me. I had a litany of problems: fear that the cancer would come back, pain, exhaustion, memory loss, headaches, anxiety, sleeplessness and an inability to connect with my husband. Cancer had shattered me, and I needed to put the pieces back together. It’s taken time, but I’ve found ways to do that. Still, more than anything, I worry about the impact these changes have had on my husband and daughters. They did not ask for this to happen any more than I did.

I know they are grateful for the way things turned out, but I also realize that they miss the old me. I’m now the person who takes it easy Instead of pushing myself harder than I need to just so everyone will think I’m supermom. The new me forgives herself when she forgets to do something because she did not write it down. This new me is sometimes shy with her husband because of her scars and lopsided implants. But the new me also realizes her body has been through an awful, traumatic experience, and it came through for her. That experience inspired me to become an advocate for women with breast cancer, a labor of love that gives me a sense of belonging and the chance to meet some incredible people with their own amazing stories.

It’s true that I’m not the same person I was before breast cancer, but I’ve created something positive out of that reality — for myself and for my family. The legacy of cancer I am passing on to my children is different than the one my family left me. It’s a legacy of hope and lifting others up, and death is nowhere in sight!

Roberta Lombardi is the founder and president of Infinite Strength, a nonprofit organization in Connecticut which makes medical treatments accessible to underserved patients with breast cancer. She is also the founder and CEO of Infinite Beauty, an intimate apparel brand which is the first on the market with a patent-pending bra specifically designed for breast cancer survivors who have had mastectomy-to-implant reconstruction. She lives in Connecticut with her husband and three daughters.

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After losing numerous relatives to cancer, one survivor is determined to leave her children a legacy of hope.
 

One Woman Chooses Her Legacy

We have probably all heard how our lives flash before our eyes like a movie reel in the moments before we die. Going through intensive breast cancer treatment and being one of the lucky ones in remission has made me think about what my movie will look like when my time comes (hopefully long from now). While I know it will have both happy and sad snapshots, the question that plagues me most is: Will I recognize the happy moments as having “been present and appreciative” when they happened?

Prior to breast cancer I was “The Planner.” I planned elaborate dinners, I planned my family’s schedule, I planned parties for loved ones. I planned for my life — our life – to unfold a certain way. I thought I was in control of everything. And what drove me was the need to create wonderful memories and orchestrate what I thought was a perfect life for my family.

Cancer made me realize how much of life I let slip by while trying to be in control and achieve perfection. It is in the ordinary that we find the extraordinary, and my cancer journey gave me the clarity to see that some of the most significant memories I treasure come from moments in time I did not plan, did not orchestrate. It is only when I stopped trying to be in control that I have been able to live in the moment, be present, be mindful.

I was reminded of this yesterday, as my three daughters (ages 17, 16 and 13) and I went on a college tour. The campus was full of beauty, situated along the Hudson River. The day was warm with a slight breeze and as the end of our visit approached, the heavens opened up and a deluge of rain began. We had no umbrellas or raincoats as we walked across campus getting soaked to the skin. My head was down looking towards the ground in an effort to keep the rain off my face when I looked up and took in the sight of my three beautiful girls walking side by side ahead of me; their heads thrown back in laughter at the absurdity of the situation, their long wavy hair getting pelted by rain, their faces tilted toward each other. My breath caught. To anyone else it may seem insignificant, but to me it was like seeing fireworks for the first time. That moment lifted my heart and filled me with profound joy and pride. I was in the moment.

, that I would have missed the moment I just described. I would have focused on how I should have anticipated for the weather instead of embracing the sheer loveliness and innocence of what happened. Surviving cancer has taught me there is peace and serenity in giving up the need to be in control. I have been immeasurably blessed in my life and now I take note of those blessings countless times every day.

I realize now my movie reel will have snapshots filled with beauty and others filled with sadness. But the happiest will be of moments for which I was truly present and appreciative. And with that, I feel peace.

Cancer made me realize how much of life I let slip by while trying to be in control and achieve perfection. Surviving cancer has taught me there is peace and serenity in giving up the need to be in control.

My Movie Reel: Surviving Cancer Has Taught Me to Be Present

As someone who lost many loved ones to cancer, I always thought on some level I understood the struggle, both physical and emotional that they endured.

And then one day I got the diagnosis: invasive breast cancer. I was 49, a wife and mother to three young daughters. I quickly realized that I understood nothing about what my loved ones endured. I was scared not so much by the thought of a mastectomy and chemo, but about dying. I quickly went into survivor mode and almost existed outside myself. It felt like I watched myself make decisions about treatments, have surgery, go for chemotherapy and lose my hair.

Inside I was very fragile, but to my children and to my family I kept my chin up and sent the message that I was just fine. By the time 14 months of treatment were through, I was watching a woman I no longer recognized and could not bear to look at in the mirror. I was depressed (although at that time I could not put a name to it) and I could not imagine how I would ever feel good about myself again.

My husband kept saying, "It's over honey, now we can go back to normal and get our life back." What he did not realize is that even for those like me who are given the sweet news of remission, there is no going back to the way things were. I did not go through cancer treatment and remain the same person, and I don't know how anyone really could. Not only are you changed physically, but you are changed emotionally and mentally.

I found it was hard not to worry about the cancer returning, I did not know how to jump back into my life without having to go to the hospital every week, as that had become my "new normal" during treatment. I did not know how to make peace with the physical changes that had taken place. I had implants that felt cumbersome and left me with chills and spasms. I had gained weight from all the drugs, and I was left feeling like a shell of what I had been. I truly did not know how to be me anymore, and I struggled with all I believed I lost.

All of a sudden, I was not afraid to die— I was afraid I did not remember how to live. It took months for the cobwebs to clear my brain, for the chemotherapy toxins to really leave my body. Slowly, I realized that to truly be a survivor, I had to readjust my expectations of myself. I was not going to be the person I was before, I could not be&mdash;but I could be so much more. I had handled one of the most difficult experiences a person can go through, and I did not crumble. I called upon strength I did not know I had, and in that strength I found beauty in myself again.

By the time 14 months of treatment were through, I was watching a woman I no longer recognized and could not bear to look at in the mirror. I realized that to truly be a survivor, I had to readjust my expectations of myself.

Roberta Lombardi

One Woman Chooses Her Legacy

My Movie Reel: Surviving Cancer Has Taught Me to Be Present

Finding Beauty In Strength

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