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It's Breast Cancer Awareness Month: This Architect of Change is on a Mission to Make Sure You Get the Life-Saving Screenings You Need

It's Breast Cancer Awareness Month: This Architect of Change is on a Mission to Make Sure You Get the Life-Saving Screenings You Need

By Patti Peterson
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Breast cancer is scary at any stage. It’s sinister, it’s rough, it’s disruptive, it’s prickly, and oftentimes eviscerating and fatal. It causes inescapable vulnerability. It’s not sexy or beautiful in any sense and it can outmaneuver you especially if detected too late. Much like the cruel betrayal of an old friend, breast cancer made my body feel untrustworthy and traitorous.

Getting regular mammograms saved my life but I discovered that many women make excuses to put it off because they find it uncomfortable. And to that I say, having breast cancer is more uncomfortable to an extreme. I made it my mission to share with every woman I met the fierce importance of getting her breasts checked annually and not dismissing it as something that can be placed on the back burner or addressed when it’s convenient.

The following is an excerpt from my forthcoming book, “Dear Mammogram, Thank You!” I felt compelled to write about my journey to not only help women learn but hopefully become inspired by my story. The beginning of my experience with this battle illustrates the paralyzing feelings that I went through after my diagnosis.

“Dear Mammogram, Thank You!” Book excerpt:

The words on the other end of the phone were both delicate and bulldozing, “I’m sorry to tell you that you have breast cancer,” eerily seeped through the speaker and with it a claustrophobic abruptness that my life was no longer my own. These words assaulted me. The possibility of breast cancer didn’t enter into my imagined mammogram results. Now, it’s as if my feet are instantly filling some other person's shoes who is about to embark on a very different path. A few minutes before my doctor called, I was making plans for the upcoming Labor Day weekend. Now my brain won’t stop shouting at me in disbelief of my diagnosis. I immediately want to vomit out these atrocities attacking me.

My insides rumble like an unstable earthquake. The aftershocks come one after another, paralyzing me for a second as the air shifts on all sides of me. I’m not sure when it will be safe for me to make a move. Needing to call the surgeon’s office to make an appointment and find out the totality of my condition, my fingers fill up with unshakeable anxiety. I push down on the wrong numbers repeatedly. Finally, I put the phone down and listen as the noise of my accelerated heartbeat tries to overrun my fears...each one competing to outstrip the other. My face is housing menacing droplets of perspiration which slowly soak into my neck and rest to percolate on the inside of my forearms.

The image of the cutting of breast tissue with sagging, shriveled, skin left in its place slowly creeps in but it’s too startling a picture. Shutting it out quickly, I refuse to accept this as my end result. Telling myself no, this is not happening. Too many gears are spinning in opposite directions as if an internal attack is jockeying to take over my sensibilities. The side comments flood in again.

With the expectation of securing a doctor’s appointment lining up, the need to make additional phone calls still hangs underneath my skin. Telling people will make this all too real and push me towards accepting the label of breast cancer recipient. I want to make other plans.

My foggy concentration is interrupted again as questions continue to wash over me. Is sickness going to define me from here on, with hair loss, nausea and prolonged weakness? I’m not ready to die...will anybody miss me? Will my life ever have a sense of nourishing comfort again? The interrogation continues its downpour until I whisper out loud, “stop torturing yourself.”

Noticing the varied expressions on people’s faces as they pass me on the way to the elevator causes me to speculate on their circumstances. Some strolled by with an air of habitual fanfare, whereas others appeared as if they were harboring distress. It made me think about what trauma or crisis squeezed at them. The day before, my breast cancer diagnosis catapulted my world into devastation. What misfortune is trespassing on their lives?  Brand new compassion surfaces for these strangers walking by me.

More often than not, if someone doesn’t smile or hold the door open, an impulsive judgment of rudeness is automatically assigned to their behavior. But the realization occurs that their apathy might spring forth as the result of a serious tragedy they are immersed in which has nothing to do with me. They too could be in the throes of darkness and oblivious to their immediate surroundings. This triggered my consciousness to venture outside my insulated bubble. A phone call or a piece of unsettling news can rearrange anyone’s intended course dramatically as it did mine just yesterday.

The doctor’s office is unruffled with deafening silence. Filling out information about my medical history adds to the chilliness I’m already feeling. It’s as if my being, my human equation is summed up by what diseases I’ve had as a child or how many surgeries my body has undergone. Placing an X next to a box doesn’t come close to unveiling my person or what travails have pushed me one inch further towards endurance. I understand that these benchmarks or guidelines are used out of an analytical necessity but my cancer is different than any other persons on this planet because it’s mine. Know the person, not just the disease is idealistic thinking under the fast paced constraints in which our society operates. However, my need for personal cushioning pulsates on my shoulders.

With the obligatory questions answered and boxes checked, my name is attached to my tonsillectomy at fourteen, removal of fibroid tumors and my predisposition to penicillin allergies. Nowhere on the page is there space to express how much missing my father who passed away several years ago affects my day or the idea of not reaching my goals and maximizing my potential distracts me. Breast cancer is now an integral part of my medical coat of arms.

The doctor greets me with a solemn handshake and is unexpectedly wearing more formal attire. His tie matches the stripes in his shirt and the pocket square that lay ceremoniously against his impeccably tailored suit is a hue of burgundy just slightly darker than the tie. His meticulous temperament is evident in his sartorial splendor which brings hope that his attention to detail will transfer over to his skill as a surgeon.

At this moment I’m craving to see the world through un-diseased fresh eyes, eyes that stored thoughts of making the impossible, possible, of fulfilling dreams…not getting first and second opinions of breast cancer lumpectomies, mastectomies and the side effects that accompany seven weeks of radiation. But at least I have options for treating this hostile malady.

When is it my turn to just fall apart and let someone else take care of this for me?  Not today...not ever. I’m not living or walking in the blithe freedom of being cancer free…yet.


A Los Angeles native, Patti Peterson is a writer, mammogram advocate, wellness enthusiast and cyclist.

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