Summer, 1987. After the doctor visit and subsequent testing, there was a week or so between biopsy and diagnosis to wait through. So we set an appointment for August 25, my 32nd birthday, to learn the biopsy results. I must have believed that the lump was nothing, or that getting the news wouldn’t ruin my birthday. Wrong. I won’t repeat that mistake.
Our family of five had just returned from a vacation to a lovely farm in western Virginia near Roanoke. A church acquaintance let us stay at their family farm, but it turned out our son Ben had terrible hay fever, and since we were among vast fields of hay in the heat of August, he was miserable. We tried not to telegraph fear to the kids, but the rest of the vacation was overshadowed by worry about the upcoming doctor appointment.
A memorable experience on vacation was a dip in a natural hot spring, in Virginia, somewhere west of Richmond. Ron thought it might prove to be healing, which was uncharacteristically superstitious. The natural pool was about 30′ across, was also eerily deep, and as long as I didn’t look down, the water’s warmth was comforting.
This was my first big lesson in anticipating the scary existential unknown. Since then I have handled potential medical adventures with intentional denial. I practice this by assuming nothing is wrong until I know something is wrong. Now that I’ve had some of the worst things happen, I try to control my fears by walking through the steps, one by one, and I try not to anticipate any steps before I know what is real. Most of the time it turns out that there is no dread disease or worst case scenario, so why put myself through that worry while I wait for answers? Still…not at all easy to do.
Back in Richmond, and back to the doctor for the biopsy results. The diagnosis: breast cancer. Once that word was out into the exam room, my ears and part of my mind closed off to external stimuli and whirlpooled. Classic deer in the headlights moment.
The surgery was quickly scheduled for thirteen days later. We also discussed a type of reconstructive surgery that could happen at the same time along with a modified radical mastectomy and I chose that path forward.
We prepared for the upheaval of our daily lives. My mom traveled from the west coast to help with the kids and the house. Since I had sewing projects on deck, I made arrangements with other seamstresses to handle the jobs and prepared to be not working for a little while. Ron took time off from teaching.
To distract ourselves, Ron and I went to a movie the night before surgery, but the whirling part of my brain took over and I have no idea which movie it was. The sound track really didn’t even break through the scream in my head. I know it helps to keep a sense of humor in scary situations, but there was no humor to be had in my soul that night.
I didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of a mental health struggle. Trauma is trauma. My response may be quite normal for people who experience illness. Some people face the trauma head on, but I closed up and shut down.
Thanks to Joseph Campbell and my theater studies, I now correlate my path back to myself to a classic hero’s tale. I did get through this troubled time, but it took a long time. I had to face the struggle, my despair, and accept the helpers along the way. I had to do the work. It all took place on the inside though and redemption would come later, after many tests and trials.
Looking back, I find that I’ve forgotten so many details about my children and relationships with other people. They say you can blink and your children are all grown. Insert a big thing like cancer into my life, and the blink becomes a nap, a big long fuzzy nap that blanked out many of my memories.
Things changed on the day after surgery. The news was good-the tumor had not spread, and there was no lymph node involvement. While in the hospital, I remember being visited by so many people. There were gifts, flowers, a teddy bear. Now that the initial shock was over, I felt like a princess with all the attention. And I felt so relieved. I really didn’t know how much medical adventure still remained.
My doctor came in on rounds and marveled at how well I did, and said I looked like I was 19 years old. What’s not to like about that kind of attention? I started having a crush on him. I was so vulnerable after losing a sexy part of my body.
My other doctor, the plastic surgeon, spent time with me too. I had regular visits with him to proceed with the expander process.
My body was in transition, and I was figuring out how to dress my new self. Draping scarves worked well for a time.
There were days when the kids were in school and I had a few hours to myself. I returned to working as a seamstress and a stitcher for theaters and dance companies, and also made street clothes and had some bridal projects. When the work slowed down I had time to sit in a park, dangle my fingers in a babbling brook and think. Thinking was usually somber, or fretful. I tried to forget about cancer, but it intruded on my thoughts quite often. Every time I had an appointment with my surgeon, I was a bit nervous. What a strange relationship that is. Here is a handsome doc that clearly likes me (not like that….) and is interested in how things are going as well as life beyond any medical adventure. My little crush, mixed with confusion of physical changes and feeling entirely and existentially vulnerable, intersected with the reality of daily life with husband, 3 kids, work, household needs, and the inability to get life insurance for the next 5 years. Life was confusing and I tended to escape into my imagination more and more, essentially living in 2 planes of existence.
But reality won most of the time, and sorting through the feelings about what I wanted to do with this one life, I decided that I wanted to further my work in the theater and get a college degree in costume design. I put my attention and energy in that direction.
I felt like it was my turn to do something for my own development since I had supported my husband through 6+ years of grad school and a doctorate as well as 3 job changes and multiple cross country and regional moves. Luckily, in those days, a woman with 3 kids could get an education without the massive debt load that students face today.
There was a portfolio review requirement to enter the program, essentially auditioning to show an aptitude for design. Theater VCU’s costume department was headed by Liz Hopper who didn’t know me, but she knew people I worked with. I imagine that made a difference because later she told me she had her doubts about my potential success as a costume designer. Maybe it was that I was married and had 3 kids, and maybe it was the quality of my drawing skills at that time. But she approved my application and I started my 4 years of college.
College was a blast and I loved learning. I dove in with passion and focus. Spending study time with 19 year old creative people and slightly older ambitious grad students invigorated my mind and curiosity. Spending time and attention on theater literature, art, film and costume history taught me more about humanity than any history class had done before. Drawing and art foundation classes taught me to observe and question in ways I had never experienced. And theater classes unbridled my imagination WAY beyond what I could possibly glean from Women’s Day and Family Circle magazines.
My life, my mind and soul began to open to a world that was bigger than I imagined, and a world that was accessible. Still, it took a long time to express all that was going on in my inner world, and I had not yet found my voice.