A Breast Cancer Veteran’s Thanksgiving Reflection

I like to refer to myself as a “breast cancer veteran.” My 20-year-old son coined the term, and I feel it’s fitting. I’ve seen things that most don’t see, but I made it out alive, and I’m so thankful that I did.

Lately this Thanksgiving, I choose to reflect on what I’m grateful for.

Snow on pine leaves, cats running quickly across the street, my neighbors, my cul-de-sac, my home, my family. My husband of 27 years has stood with me through thick and thin. When we married, someone said, “This man will never leave you, ”and he was right. Cancer procedure after cancer procedure, surgeries, chemo appointments, that time my breast incisions got infected and I was hospitalized, and my sweet husband Stephen had to wash me in the shower. He’s been so good, so giving. I am thankful for his presence and his humor, which has truly carried us through.

My son, Thomas, is also funny. In the morning when he eats breakfast, I make sure to plant myself across from him so that we can chat, and I can see what he’s thinking that day.

He’s writing a book about his adoption, and I couldn’t be prouder that he’s becoming a writer like his mother. Thomas is smart, but he is also wise. He’s been through a lot because, for the last decade, I’ve been dealing with cancer, and he’s been there watching me and giving me support as I struggled. It’s hard for a child to be part of a cancer veteran’s life. He too is a survivor, in a different way, and I love him very much.

My 93-year-old mother, whom I treasure. I look up to her for her strength as she deals with Parkinson disease. She is feisty, and she’s not going to let her malady get the best of her. She still cooks dinner for her family, holding onto her walker with one hand and a stirring spoon with the other. Our family is meeting at her house for Thanksgiving. We’re all bringing food. She and my brother Mike, who lives with her, are cooking the turkey. I’m bringing the beans; my other brother is bringing the potatoes; my husband is making the stuffing. My son is making the applesauce and the other cousins are bringing desserts. Mom, I love you, and I’m so lucky to have you.

Mike is the oldest child in our immediate family. He has always been my role model. He makes me laugh with his nonsense poems and funny imitations of our old neighbors. And he can sing like Ethel Merman. He's the top, what can I say?

Thank you, Mike, for taking care of our mom. What would we do without you? When I had to go to radiation every day for my cancer, you drove me, transported me to my treatments and waited for me in the waiting room. Killing time on your computer. Not sure what you were working on, but you used the minutes wisely. My breast was never the same after that radiation. In fact, it gave me secondary cancer, which I had to deal with five years later. But that came and went, and I’m so glad just to be alive.

Bob, my other brother, the one who calls me “Pie Hole” because I like to talk a lot. Even though you don’t say it, I know you love me, and I certainly love you. Thank you for being there when I call you for a reference for a tire man or ask you a question about anything mechanical. An engineer, you were born with the power to fix things. You’ve fixed my spirits many times over the years. When you heard I had cancer, you brought me Fruit Bars — fruit popsicles to make me feel better. Our dad used to do that, but dad is gone, and so now you do it. I love you, and I’m grateful for you.

Dad. Taken too young at 52, when I was 19, we miss you. You are watching over us. I am grateful for that, grateful for you.

Yes, I’m a cancer veteran. I’ve been through it all, and I’m here to talk about it to anyone who will listen. I guess I’m valuable, educationally speaking.

Readers, may you have a wonderful, happy holiday. May you not gorge too much. Be sure to take a walk after you eat. And pray, thanking God for your good fortune.

We are blessed just to be here.

Snow on pine leaves, cats running quickly across the street, your neighbors, your road, your home, your family — take it all in. You are alive, a survivor, perhaps. But more importantly, a veteran.

That’s all.

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