Cancer Is A Funny Thing: A Humorous Look at the Bright Side of Cancer...And There Is One

CANCER IS A FUNNY THING

A Humorous Look at the Bright Side of Cancer… And There Is One

Marie de Haan

Copyright © 2017 by Marie de Haan. All rights reserved.

The names of the author’s caregivers

have been changed to protect their privacy.

Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional when appropriate. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, personal, or other damages.

1. Biography & Autobiography : Personal Memoirs 2. Health & Fitness : Diseases - Breast Cancer 3. Religion : Christian Life - Inspirational

ISBN: 978-1-935953-79-1

Original Copyright © 2010 by Marie de Haan

Second Edition

Smashwords Edition

Printed in the United States of America

Authority Publishing

11230 Gold Express Dr. #310-413

Gold River, CA 95670

800-877-1097

www.AuthorityPublishing.com

I dedicate this book to my family:

Ken deHaan

The Husband

You were there for me through thick and thin, especially the thick. Not only did you deal with all the insurance problems we were suddenly faced with, you cleaned house and made dinner often while working to support the family.

You also scraped me off the floor more than once, especially

when I wanted to quit that wretched chemotherapy.

I treasured our time in Maui

and look forward to going there again for our 50th anniversary.

&

Adriana, Michael, Jonathan

The Children

I’m hoping that all three of you

will be able to read this book one day.

I realize that the pages are full of painful memories,

but trust me, there were some good times as well,

and you will want to read about them.

Please don’t wait until I am dead.

I appreciated the corny jokes that you told to

cheer me up and the way you loved me through it all.

I love each and every one of you right back.

Also available from the author:

Cancer Is a Funny Thing: Reconstructing My Life

Preface

You know, it might just be me, but the words vomiting and vacation should never be used in the same sentence.

There I was, the day before my twentieth wedding anniversary, hanging over the edge of the tiny rocking boat in the hot Hawaiian sun puking my brains out, all the while trying to stay out of the line of fire of the other poor woman upwind from me, tossing her own cookies over the edge into the water.

It was too bad; it had been a great lunch.

My husband, Ken, and I were celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, five years early.

You see, receiving a sudden diagnosis of Stage III locally advanced breast cancer at the age of 42 makes you move things up. And think of things like bucket lists. We didn’t think I was going to be around in six months, much less five years.

Yes, I had an actual bucket list. In the interest of time (since I thought I had little of it), I had narrowed down many of my lifelong dreams into one short bucket list: 1) Get my dream kitchen. 2) Publish a book. 3) Go to Maui for our 25th wedding anniversary. 4) Fit into my Oprah dress. 5) Get a patio set and concrete poured in the back yard.

A lot has happened to me since that day on the tiny rocking boat.

Cancer is a rocky ride, there is no denying that.

If you’ve picked up a copy of this book, either you have been diagnosed with cancer yourself, or you’re taking care of a loved one with cancer. Maybe you bought this book as a gift for a friend because you didn’t know what words of hope to give him or her.

Words of hope are always a good thing.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I was immediately approached by well-meaning friends and family with 400-page health books that I was pressed to read, and emailed by those same friends to partake in the maple syrup and baking soda cure and the asparagus diet.

Okay. I’m not sure why I ended up with breast cancer in spite of my fairly active lifestyle and interest in nutrition. Did I eat too much sugar? Probably. Don’t we all? Was I too stressed out all the time? Yes. What working mother isn’t? Maybe it’s because my hormones were screwed up all those years. One thing I do know for sure: I did not get cancer because I’m deficient in maple syrup and baking soda.

I chose not to eat maple syrup (except on oatmeal) or bucket-loads of asparagus. If I was going to eat baking soda, it was going to be in the form of a muffin, one that I had made with less sugar and no white flour.

What I wanted was to read the cards that poured in, and hang out with friends I thought I would never see again because of my impending death.

If I can give you any advice in your role as caregiver or friend of a cancer patient, do not overload this person with long health books or impress upon him the need to change his whole diet. If he does decide to go through chemotherapy, he may be lucky to keep anything down.

Support your loved one in the hard decisions she will be facing. Be there for her. Tell her you love her and ask what you can do to help her out.

Some of the most meaningful moments of my own cancer journey were when my daughter’s friends came to weed my flowerbeds because I was sick in bed. Another time, strangers stitched a beautiful quilt for me to take to my chemotherapy appointments.

If you are the person going through cancer, realize that while there is no denying the bad days ahead, there will also be many days filled with blessings. Before I got cancer, I thought people who said that were crazy. Now, I’m spouting the same words.

There will be times that you laugh. Loud and heartily.

There will be times that you cry because something hits you so profoundly.

Embrace all of these moments. Hold your head high. If someone tries to give you a book on the asparagus diet, give it back gently. It’s okay. Or, follow the asparagus diet if you want. That’s the thing. It’s your body. If you want to blend up asparagus and down it by the bucketful, by all means, do that.

I like asparagus, but not that much. I eat it occasionally.

Most of all, have hope. You can get through this.

This book originally came out in 2010, as part of my self-induced therapy and born out of my own need for hope that somehow, I would make it through. This second edition lets you know that I did not die in 2010 (after the completion of this book) like I thought I would. I lived. And lived well. I even managed to write another book, fulfilling the second item on my bucket list twice. But enough about me.

I would love to hear your story. Send me an email to let me know how you’re doing. My website is listed on the back of this book and will direct you to my contact information.

Tell me about your frustrations and your accomplishments, because you will have both.

Above all, live with joy.

Marie de Haan

November 20, 2016

I have learned, in whatsoever

state I am, therewith to be content.

Philippians 4:11b

1 THE DIAGNOSIS

As I sat on the piano bench, teaching little Anna how to run up and down the B major scale with her nimble fingers, I resisted the urge to grab my right boob and yell, Ow, ow, ow! at the top of my lungs.

Probably not the most professional way to act.

I shoved my long, blonde bangs out of my eyes, breaking into a cold sweat. My breast had hurt for two solid days and I was about to go off the deep end.

March 19, 2009, I wrote at the top of Anna’s notebook. Anna, I want you to practice this scale with your left hand this week, okay? I said through clenched teeth, while her mother, Karin, watched on—oblivious to my torment—in her customary station on the rocking chair next to the piano.

I had found the lump seven months earlier, in August.

Hey, Ken, I asked my husband one night, do you think this is anything?

Hmm, it sure is. He raised his eyebrows. I knew that look in those deep, brown eyes.

I’m serious. I found this lump.

I don’t know. Let me check it out. He nestled his face into my chest.

This wasn’t going anywhere. Not the way I thought it would, anyway. Of course, he thought it was going somewhere.

Do you feel it?

I sure do. His hand groped my breast.

What was I asking him again? Oh, yes. The lump. I tried to guide his hand to the spot, but he couldn’t feel it at all. I could barely feel it myself.

After seven months of inactivity, I finally decided to be responsible and get a routine pap smear and breast examination.

You’re right, it’s probably just a cyst, Dr. Morrison said, observing my insides up on his screen. He frowned.

It sure hurts, I answered. What would you do? Surgically remove it? Lance it? I felt a shiver go up my spine at the word lance.

I think I’m going to send you for a diagnostic mammogram.

Before I knew it, I found myself not only getting a mammogram, but an ultrasound and an extensive biopsy in rapid succession.

Over the next couple of days, I called Dr. Morrison’s office for the results of my tests and kept getting the runaround. I wanted the cyst taken care of as soon as possible. Our family was leaving for California and I wanted to be able to heal from the outpatient procedure enough to be able to ride the roller coasters at Knott’s Berry Farm.

By Friday, I couldn’t wait any longer. This time, I would show up in person and not leave until I had my answer. My 16-year-old daughter, Adriana, sat out in the car waiting, while I marched inside. We both should have been at home packing.

So, have you heard anything yet? I asked at the front desk, not quite succeeding in keeping the anger out of my voice.

The receptionist stared at me with a blank look on her face. A nurse walking by, however, saw me and asked, Oh, did they tell you about the MRI appointment?

I shook my head.

We made an appointment for you on the fourteenth of April.

Fourteenth of April? I’ve told this office several times that I won’t be here then. I’m parking my butt on the beach in California. I looked at my watch. In fact, we’re leaving in three or four hours. You’re confusing me with another patient.

Maria Ann de Haan?

Yes. I was losing patience.

We have you down for an MRI at the hospital.

What for? This woman was obviously very confused.

She whispered in my ear, Maybe you better come back here.

I was annoyed because they hadn’t returned any of my phone calls, but had all the time in the world to set up MRIs for me when I was going to be out of town. They weren’t listening to me.

I followed the nurse down the hallway to a little office and sat down.

Dr. Chen will come and talk to you.

I normally see Dr. Morrison.

Dr. Morrison is out right now and Dr. Chen will talk to you instead.

Waiting, waiting, waiting. This cyst was bloody interfering with my life.

Adriana, still out in the car, was probably wondering what in the world had happened to me.

I was herded down to another room, the same one where Dr. Morrison had performed his exam ten days earlier.

Dr. Chen was a short, Chinese man who didn’t look to be any older than 20. He handed me a thick stack of papers and said, with no preamble, You have advanced breast cancer.

Pardon me?

Advanced. His accent was pretty thick, but I heard that word loud and clear.

I looked down at the pathology report in my hand. These words might as well have been written in Chinese, his language, for all the sense they made to me. I honed in on the first one. What does ‘invasive poorly differentiated ductal carcinoma with abundant necrosis’ mean? I asked Dr. Chen, calm as can be.

Advanced.

How about ‘poor tubule formation 3/3, high nuclear grade 3/3, and low mitotic rate 1/3’?

Advanced.

This guy was starting to tick me off. Pick a new word already. Nottingham Grade. I don’t know what that is. It says I have 2 out of 3.

Advanced.

I didn’t cry at all, because I didn’t believe he knew what he was talking about. It was a cyst. There had to be some kind of mistake.

Realizing I wasn’t getting anywhere, I stood up. Dr. Chen followed me out to the receptionist’s desk.

I think he was waiting for me to break down into hysterics and when I didn’t react in a typical fashion, he patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, and went about his merry way.

I asked the receptionist who I had to call to cancel my MRI appointment and went my merry way out to the car.

What did the doctor say? Adriana asked me, clearly petrified to hear the answer.

"Apparently, I have advanced breast cancer." I couldn’t get over the fact that he must have said that word about seventeen times.

My daughter burst into tears.

I still couldn’t cry and snapped into practical mode. We can go home and tell the family or we can go to Fred Meyer and pick up lunch meat to put on sandwiches.

She sniffled and looked at me like I was crazy.

When she didn’t answer, I broke it down for her again: Go home or sandwiches?

"Uh…I don’t…sniff, sniff…know…"

Let’s get some turkey.

I must have been in shock. I still haven’t figured out why I reacted the way I did except that I’m a pretty down-to-earth person, we were going on vacation for a few weeks, and I wanted to make sure we had food in the car. What can I say? That’s just the way I am. I didn’t have time to fall apart now, advanced breast cancer or not.

At home, Ken and I disappeared into our bedroom while Adriana holed up in her room to hide her swollen eyes from her brothers.

The doctor—some young guy about 20—said that I have advanced breast cancer.

Ken wrapped me in a big hug.

Do you think we should cancel our road trip? his muffled voice asked from somewhere in the vicinity of my armpit.

I pulled away. Are you kidding me? No way. You know how much I love California. I’ve looked forward to this trip for over a year. We’re going. We can sit and be sad here at home or we can sit and be sad at the beach. What’s to think about? I love Washington, but the rain was getting to me.

Mer, at least call Joe and see what he says before we hop in that car, okay? he responded, referring to the naturopath I had seen for years.

I will, but we’re going on this trip, I said firmly. But we do have to tell the boys now.

We called them into the living room. Jonathan—turning 13 the next day—cried on my shoulder while we both sat on the couch. Fifteen-year-old Michael held it in like me, stood up quickly, and slipped into his room. Ken followed him.

I next dialed my friend Tami,