By Susan Cambria

I have to smile when I remember the times I’ve sat waiting for my mammogram‚ trying to imagine how I’d respond to the news‚ “We found a little spot.” Of course‚ I’d accept this information with quiet dignity‚ never losing my composure—a poster child for stoicism.

Being active in community groups‚ I knew I’d continue to attend meetings‚ and when people asked how I was‚ I’d say‚ “I’m doing great!” and mean it. Family and friends would marvel at how well I was handling the diagnosis and treatment.

After the mammogram was read as “normal‚” I’d leave the office serene with the self–knowledge that I was so strong.

Fortunately‚ my mammograms are still negative. Unfortunately‚ I was diagnosed with melanoma.

A diagnosis of cancer detonates a nuclear warhead in your mind. All of the role–playing you can imagine cannot prepare you for this diagnosis. In my many mammogram waiting room scenarios‚ I never considered total emotional devastation as a possibility. So much for self–knowledge.

From the day you are diagnosed‚ you will be forever changed. This event will be added to the list of “Where were you?” Where were you when Pearl Harbor was bombed‚ when President Kennedy was shot‚ when the World Trade Center was attacked‚ when you got your biopsy results?

I’ve been told that life becomes divided into BC (before cancer) and AD (after diagnosis). I have found this to be true. Believe it or not‚ you will come to celebrate‚ perhaps‚ the worst day of your life. It will become the yearly finish line in a never–ending race to outlive your disease.

The good news is that birthdays‚ instead of being dreaded reminders of aging‚ become celebrations of surviving another year. You’ll never again deny yourself that extra piece of cake.

At first‚ I felt tremendous guilt. How can I do this to my children? They’re too young to lose their mother. (I still haven’t figured out when it’s a good time to lose a parent.) And how can I leave my husband and best friend? The people I love most would be hurt. All because of me.

I felt anger when well–meaning friends would tell me‚ “Don’t worry. Everything will turn out all right.”

Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me you’ll pray for me. Even tell me that you don’t know what to say‚ but unless you have God’s personal phone number‚ please don’t tell me you know I’m going to be fine. It doesn’t help.

My dermatologist told me to stay off the Internet until after surgery because of misinformation that could only make me feel worse. Instead‚ I went to a bookstore for help. Scanning titles and contents of cancer–related books‚ it quickly became clear to me that this approach would not be very helpful. I was looking for something like Cancer for Nervous Wrecks‚ Melanoma and Mad–ness‚ or Pity: When You Just Can’t Seem to Get Enough.

Instead‚ I read about women who kept their chins up‚ home–schooled five kids‚ and went to law school in their spare time. I read about fighters who wouldn’t let cancer get them down despite unbearable odds. Instead of inspiring me‚ what I was reading made me feel worse because I didn’t measure up to these strong people. What I really felt like doing was eating large quantities of carbohydrates and sleeping. I gained 15 pounds.

Now‚ almost three years post diagnosis‚ my CT scans are clear‚ life is good (after getting help from a wonderful psychiatrist who works with cancer patients)‚ and I have changed in many ways. No excuses‚ no apologies. “I am what I am and that’s all that I am.” At least‚ that’s what Popeye says.

My advice? Be easy on yourself. THERE IS NO “RIGHT” WAY TO HAVE CANCER. Accept that you will come through this journey a different person. You will finally get to know your true self. Chances are you’ll like yourself a lot more.

It’s normal and OK to feel afraid‚ devastated‚ angry‚ numb‚ and whatever else you feel. If you don’t feel like a cancer warrior‚ that’s OK‚ too. Your doctors are fighting for you. But‚ if you find yourself having trouble getting through the day‚ get help. You deserve it. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re smart enough to know that you can’t get through this alone.

It was helpful for me to tell my doctor about my fears. Healing cannot begin until your feelings have been acknowledged and your diagnosis accepted by you and your loved ones.

Susan Cambria lives in Connecticut with her husband‚ two children‚ and a closet of sunscreen. She is a nurse anesthetist and a sculptor.

Send your 700–word essays on cancer to mweber@curetoday.com.