The Importance of Gratitude During Cancer, Not Only in November

Gratitude was not something I learned in childhood. Well, I learned when to say, “Please” and “Thank you,” but I didn’t believe I had anything to be grateful for. I struggled in my young life, knowing little love or support in my family. However, I experienced joy as a teen, and as a result, enjoyed the first real gratitude in my life. 

I became involved in a Christian youth organization that provided for me, what I had missed in my childhood. That source of community enabled me to feel grateful. The organization, not allied with a particular church, was loosely connected to my public high school in eastern Pennsylvania. The following summer, I was thrilled to be given the opportunity to travel by bus to the Young Life ranch in Colorado. That week at Frontier Ranch, I began to feel like somebody; I felt intense gratitude, so much appreciation for having friends and happiness.

After I graduated from high school and college, I decided to move across my state. I felt welcomed by a small group of friends, met a guy, got married and had three daughters.

When my first daughter was born, joy and gratitude were there, and within the first few days, then weeks, of her life, what might be obvious to some, dawned on me! I would raise my daughter much differently than I had been raised! I did the same with each of my girls and never regretted the extra effort it sometimes took. As the months and years went by, I knew that not only had I raised strong, smart, loving daughters, l but I had become stronger and more loving to myself than I would have felt possible. Grateful? Absolutely!

Life was much better, but when I was about 40 years old, cancer first touched my life. When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, I faced two challenges: I still had a strained relationship with her, partially because of the bitterness that I held onto, despite years of reading forgiveness books and articles. (By then my daughters had a good relationship with their grandmother.) Secondly, I had to face the fact that the maternal side of my mother's family was indeed being affected by genetically linked breast cancer. Mom was the third generation of women who had received a breast cancer diagnosis.

Although my mother told me that her cancer was caught early, it was only a few months before it had metastasized. She suffered a lot. Mom struggled through many rounds of harsh chemotherapy until metastases reached the liver and she declined further treatment. At the time she was in treatment, I was conflicted a lot. At times I even felt as if in standing up for myself in a disagreement, I would expedite her death. Nevertheless, my daughters and I traveled the five hours to see her regularly.

Strangely, I found myself in the position of the adult child in the family who spent a lot of time with my mother in her last few months of life. My sister, the golden child of the family, did not step forward to be there for Mom, and I felt I needed to. I felt amazing joy in the fact that as she faced her final weeks and days, she was clearly grateful for my help, and I was grateful to God for enabling me to do what was right, regardless of whether it made a positive difference in my life going forward.

My mother passed away in the mid-1990s six years later, I was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer, ductal carcinoma in situ. Initially so glad that the mammogram had detected the cancer early, I soon realized that I was at a great risk of recurrence. I had heard about mastectomies being done preventatively. However, it was uncommon at the time. I wasn’t rich or famous. Was there any chance my insurance would cover the surgery?

I scheduled an appointment with a recommended breast surgeon, listened to her tell me about the standard oncological procedure of the time, and took a deep breath.

“Would it be possible for me to have a mastectomy and reconstructive surgery?” I asked her quietly. She told me yes.

Oh my, the gratitude!! I had worried and worried, for years, even before my mother’s diagnosis.

Thanksgiving days in my home have never been just about reading a prayer handed out in church or printed off the internet, before the big meal. Because of my fondness for the concept of gratitude, as my children have grown up (our family now includes grandchildren) the last Thursday of November isn’t Thanksgiving without each of us sharing at least one thing we’re thankful for with the group.

In the spring of 2018, after surgeries to remove malignant tumors in each of my lungs, I was diagnosed with stage 3B lung cancer and given a 30% chance of survival. Although my journey was difficult, there were times of gratitude, filled with joy.

One was following my first round of chemotherapy: I had spent a physically, emotionally and spiritually draining night. I was nauseated, with ongoing vomiting and diarrhea, anxiety and depression. I was thankful just to see that my fever was sufficiently high to justify a special trip to see an oncologist. My diagnosis: all symptoms are normal, with some dehydration. I was told to drink more water.

As I rode home in the car, I felt no different physically, but my anxiety and depression were gone; my spirits lifted! And by that Thanksgiving, three months later, it made no difference whether I could taste the turkey and stuffing, I was grateful, beyond belief for having completed chemotherapy!

I subsequently had five weeks of daily radiation therapy, and on the final day, participated in an old cancer treatment completion tradition, I rang the bell in celebration, with gratitude! Finally, in early January of the following year after finishing a year of immunotherapy, I reached remission.

Oh, so grateful to be alive!

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