Haunted by the Ghosts of Cancers Past
I am not my father.
My cancer is not my father’s cancer.
Two very simple statements, but the journey I undertook to be able to say them, and more importantly, to believe them, was perilous. What I didn’t understand when I was diagnosed with breast cancer five months ago is that I would not be experiencing this health crisis alone.
I’m not talking about family and friends helping me and supporting me; I hoped and prayed that they would (and they have). What I mean is that the cancer journey I started on in September is not just me fighting breast cancer — it’s me and a whole pack of ghosts of cancers past.
There’s my great-grandmother Susanna, who I was named for. She was a beautiful and tough Arkansas Ozarks mother of ten who died in her late sixties of cancer. No one is quite sure what kind.
And my husband’s grandfather Duffy, who died of lung cancer. Robert took him to his radiation treatments as he wasted away. He ended up so weak that my husband had to carry him into the hospital for his treatments towards the end.
There are other close relatives and friends. Marilyn and Josephine, who died of ovarian cancer. David and Stan, who died of brain cancer. Lou Ann, a next door neighbor who died of breast cancer.
And then there’s my dad. He was an amazing father and I adored him. A Texas cowboy, he was the very first in his family to go to college. He survived a horrific childhood where both parents died and he ended up an orphan at 15. He quit school to help support his two younger brothers, met and married my mom at 19, and, with her support, went to night school to get his high school diploma. He then applied to Texas A&M, graduated with honors, and moved out to California to work for Safeway. He built a new life in the Golden State and provided my sister and me with an idyllic upbringing. He loved horses, and I grew up on a string of fat and friendly ponies. My favorite memories are of trail rides with him in the gorgeous green foothills surrounding our house. He was active, fit, and happy. He loved life and he loved us.
But when he was 45 he contracted renal (kidney) cancer. And when he was 47, despite surgery, radiation, and chemo, the cancer advanced into his liver and he died.
So when I had my first indication that there might be something quite dangerous lurking in my breast, the ghosts started to stir. Fearful memories of others’ illness and death dusted themselves off and came back to life. Long forgotten images and conversations and smells and sounds came to mind, unbidden and unwelcome.
Dealing with breast cancer is enough, in and of itself. There’s so much to learn about the disease and the treatment, so many emotions and experiences to process, so many fears to battle. I knew this, in a way. I knew there would be much work to do and that I had a long and uncertain journey ahead of me. I just didn’t know that I’d be undertaking the journey with the ghosts of everyone I’ve ever known who’s died of cancer.
I’m not quite sure what it is about cancer that is so much more frightening than, say, heart disease or Alzheimer’s or even the H1N1 flu. I’ve noticed that some people are even afraid to say the word cancer, dancing around the word or calling it “the Big C.” There’s some kind of dark power in the word. I feel it, and often I talk about “what I’m experiencing” or “this health issue” or “health problem” without using the word itself. I’m not sure why, but I do know that the dark cloud of fear and memories that goes with cancer is a very real part of the battle.
And those memories are wrapped up in the people I’ve known and lost to cancer, despite the best efforts of doctors and surgeons.
Very early on around the time of my diagnosis, I began to vividly relive my dad’s illness and death. I felt afresh the agony of losing him and just the unfairness of the whole damn thing.
And I agonized over his age. He had been 45 when he got cancer. I was 44. I couldn’t get past those numbers. They haunted me. Was everyone in my family going to die in their forties? Would my children have to experience what I went through in losing a parent so young? It was a dark time. I was at a women’s retreat down in the Santa Cruz mountains during this period, and I had the time to think and grieve and cry and argue with God. This was so unfair. How could he do this to me and my family? Why did I have to go through this? I explained to God that I didn’t have time for cancer. I’m writing books and speaking and doing ministry. I’m raising kids and being a wife and living my life. I’d been working out in the months previous, living and eating healthy. I was mentoring a budding speaker and teaching a women’s Bible study and promoting So Long Status Quo.
I didn’t tell anyone at the retreat what I was going through and I felt very alone and afraid. I really didn’t know where to turn.
Then the retreat speaker, a gorgeous and wise woman, shared a Bible verse that rocked me. I don’t remember much of what she said, but I do remember this. It’s from the book of Phillippians in the New Testament:
Don’t worry about anything, but pray about everything. With thankful hearts offer up your prayers and requests to God. Then, because you belong to Christ Jesus, God will bless you with peace that no one can completely understand. And this peace will control the way you think and feel (Philippians 4:6-7, CEV)
Another translation reads like this: “Be anxious for nothing…..and the peace of God, that surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
I clung to that verse like a blind woman stumbling down a dark hallway. I memorized it, and repeated it, and soaked it in. I practiced it. I did what it said. I prayed, and thanked God for all the ways he has blessed me, and I told him my worries and my deepest, darkest thoughts. And slowly…slowly…it worked. It doesn’t make much sense, but I have peace.
And that’s it. That’s how I’ve been able to stay strong on this journey. It’s my little secret….and now it’s yours, too.
* * * * *
TREATMENT UPDATE: I have my 3rd chemo infusion today. One of my dearest and oldest best friends, Lorena, is taking me today. This is 3 of 4, so I’m almost done! After that, probably a course of radiation to mop up any stray cells in the area, and then Tamoxifen, a hormone blocker, for five years. I’m feeling pretty good–just experiencing some bone and muscle pain from Neupogen injections to boost white blood cells in my bone marrow. And I still haven’t had the guts to go commando (an expression I co-opted for going out bald), just yet. But I still have the itch to do it, so stay posted!!
Susy Flory is the author of So Long Status Quo: What I Learned From Women Who Changed the World (Beacon Hill). She wrote a book about being a strong woman; now, with a recent diagnosis of breast cancer, she has to live it.
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SUSY FLORY is a writer, speaker, and journalist who inspires and challenges women to embrace a life of passion, boldness, & adventure. In your own unique way, YOU can change the world, starting in your own backyard. 
you are my hero Susy, thank you
Beautifully written (you know I couldn’t leave that out). You’re so strong, facing what all us gals fear, and doing it with dignity and grace.
Thanks for sharing that.
The verses you mention – they’re my password on my office computer. Chosen for me by my secretary, because I need to be reminded of it all the time!
WOW Susy. Isn’t it amazing how meditating on a verse like that can transform everything?
Still praying…
Susy, you are an example and an inspiration to me. Thank you for sharing with us your inner most feelings.
Haven’t stopped praying…..
Susy, I just had this great memory of your dad surprising us, coming down the stairs in your house while dressed in Lederhosen and playing the accordion. Oh, how we loved him!
I’m learning that our enemy uses ghosts of the past to make us uncertain about the future. Thank you for reminding me to hold fast to God’s promises.
Dearest Susy,
You are always an inspiration to me… you warm my heart and I am deeply moved by your sharing. Thank you for allowing us to be a part of your journey… praying for you.
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