By Rev. Todd Outcalt

My wife Becky was at a sales meeting in Florida when she called with the news. “I just talked to the doctor about the breast biopsy,” she said, her voice trembling. “It’s not good. I have cancer.”

Cancer. How could this be? Becky was too young, too active, too fit to be diagnosed with this disease. This must be a mistake. My wife was healthy; she ate the best foods; she exercised. And besides, she was busy being a mother and wife. She had a promising career. She didn’t have time for this disease, and neither did I.

Cancer didn’t seem like a good match for us. Becky and I were best friends and lovers. We were parents to two wonderful children. And after 17 years of marriage, we were just beginning to hit our stride—paying off a mortgage, saving for our children’s educations, attending school functions and athletic events. How could cancer invade our lives so suddenly, so mercilessly?
A thousand miles away, my wife began to sob over the phone.

“We’ll get through this,” I said. “Take it easy.”

Take it easy? How? We’d been waiting for the results of the breast biopsy for five days, thinking of it as just another procedure, another step following on the heels of a suspicious-looking mammogram—a mere precautionary measure. And there were other issues at hand. Becky had flown to Florida two days after Sept. 11.

Everyone from the president on down had been telling us to live our lives, to go about our business, to travel. In the aftermath of a national tragedy, the breast biopsy loomed as little more than another medical hoop that my wife was being asked to jump through. The doctors had assured us that biopsies came back negative 80% of the time. Suddenly Becky was no longer in the majority, but the minority—the 20% who come back positive.

“What am I going to do?” she sobbed. “How am I going to deal with this?”

Finding Strength
As a pastor, I’d helped hundreds of families deal with a multitude of illnesses—many of them terminal. I’d stood by the bedside, offered words of comfort, held trembling hands, presided over funerals and tragedies of every kind. I’d seen heart disease, AIDS, car crash victims, and yes, even cancer. Since Sept. 11, I had been busy organizing prayer vigils and worship services for those who were having difficulty managing their own pain and fear.

But nothing had prepared me to help my own wife. The news had entered our lives like an earthquake, and I was too close to the epicenter. “It’s going to be all right,” I assured her, trying desperately to believe it myself.

“I can’t stay here,” my wife told me. “I want to come home. I love you. I need to be with you.”

“Come home,” I said. “I love you, too.”

That was that. But the hard part was just beginning.

At midnight Becky arrived home in Indianapolis on the last flight of the day. When we made eye contact, we walked toward one another slowly, arms outstretched and aching for touch (just like some scene from a sappy Hollywood love story), and fell into each other’s arms. We hugged tightly, Becky’s face pressing deeply into my chest as she cried. I looked far off, searching for some sign beyond the windows, hoping this strange and awkward moment might turn out to be just a bad dream.

I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to be strong—for her, for our children, for the future. But inside my chest my heart was pounding and I struggled for some words of faith and encouragement. “It will be all right,” I kept mouthing over and over. “Don’t worry.”

Sharing the News
When I told my congregation, an astounding number of women, many of them breast cancer survivors, stepped forward with words of comfort and empathy. We received cards and letters by the basketful. People called. Others visited. Many offered their presence to us in the midst of our storm.

Becky set up appointments with a surgeon and a radiologist. We spent the better part of a day sweating it out in the sterile confines of a medical center waiting room. We were surrounded by the faces of others who were weighed down with the same fears and uncertainties. Some women emerged alone from examination rooms—many of them bald, or incredibly thin—their faces slack and haggard. Some wore scarves or wigs.

I was overcome by a deepening sadness, not only for our loss and the growing awareness of what we were facing together, but also for the women who were coping with their cancer, alone.

After hours of waiting, we finally spoke to the surgeon—a gentle and articulate doctor, who made eye contact with us and reviewed the various options and forms of treatment step-by-step. We talked for an hour, the doctor answering our questions in numbing detail. He then sent us down the hallway to speak to a plastic surgeon. More waiting. More discussion. And by the end of the day, we were both wiped out—emotionally, intellectually, physically.

Now What?
We read a startling number of books within a span of days—perhaps more books than I had consumed in any abbreviated period of my life, including graduate school. Becky became an expert in the research, philosophy, and statistics of breast cancer treatments. She was focused on making decisions that were best for her.

All I could do was watch . . . and lend support. Sometimes I listened. Sometimes I cursed. Sometimes I cried. I prayed, too.

Eventually she settled into a calmer state of mind—very focused, intense, purposeful. The surgeon had given her two options to consider, and she was determined to make the right choice. She could have a lumpectomy followed by six weeks of radiation treatments, or opt for a mastectomy followed by reconstructive surgery. Two choices. But which one was best for her?

Being the man didn’t help matters, either. I was equally ambiguous. Confused. There must be another choice—a solution that would not require such drastic measures.

Some evenings we sat on the couch in silence with a pile of books between us trying to sort the issues. Becky would ask my opinion on mastectomy.

“Yes,” I’d answer. “If that’s what you want.”

“But what do you think?”

“I think you should do what you think is best.”

“But . . . .”

As time went by, it was clear that, even though I had the best of intentions and my support was unwavering, Becky felt very alone. She was the one who had cancer, not me. She was the one who was going to endure the pain and discomfort of surgery or therapy. It would have to be her decision in the end. All I could do was offer my love and strength.

Later, the surgeon confirmed my suspicions about the isolation and loneliness women face when dealing with breast cancer. Becky asked him which one he would choose and he told her it was her decision, adding, “Some women, like you, immerse themselves in learning about the options. They do their homework; they learn all the medical language and the statistics and the procedures. They know what will be required at every step along the way and they make an informed decision. Other women, however, can’t cope with these facts. They feel overwhelmed by knowledge. They just want to get well. They make a decision based on other factors—such as their family situation, or how they believe their bodies will react to surgery or treatment. They decide from the heart. In the end, every woman has to make a choice based on what she knows, or what she doesn’t want to know.”

Moving Forward
Becky sought a second opinion—not so much because she didn’t trust the first surgeon—but because she didn’t want to look back later with regret and ask, “Why didn’t I pursue other options?” More surgeons, more books, more waiting. Same results. Same options. Same predicament.
Becky opted for a mastectomy.

After she decided, I learned a great deal about the human psyche. For example, I learned that any decision we make in life—particularly a weighty one carrying a potential life-and-death outcome—usually bears an accompanying sadness. This reality is all the more pronounced when we are forced to give up some part of the body—particularly an organ associated with our sexuality or identity. Losing a breast might be akin to a man losing a testicle, or perhaps his libido. The loss of a breast can also cause a woman to relinquish some of her confidence, her hope, even her zest for life. Or, just the opposite may be true. Some women will cling all the more to what they need, or may even reprioritize their lives out of sense of urgency.

A Caregiver’s Dilemma
Becky had access to a wealth of books and pamphlets about breast cancer and how to cope with the disease—but I had fewer resources to draw from. She was surrounded—quickly and efficiently—by other women who had gone through the same procedures. But I often felt alone and frustrated. Before the surgery, my wife spent long hours on the telephone discussing all of her options—the solutions and drawbacks—with family and friends. I spent my time keeping things together at home, helping the children, and managing the day-to-day affairs so my wife would have this valuable time to strengthen herself and clear her mind.

These are not complaints, just observations—and I’m sure my wife would agree with them. I was happy to take on this extra load, not only for my wife’s sake, but for my own peace of mind and the distractions this busyness afforded me.

As the day of the surgery approached, I discovered that I was wrestling with some frightful demons. These fears were largely unspoken, but were real nonetheless. I began to worry about what my wife’s breast might look like following the mastectomy—not because I feared that I would be unable or unwilling to look at the scar, but because I feared that Becky might feel unattractive in my presence. I worried that I might not be strong enough to support her and the children through her illness. And, yes, I also worried that, somehow, the sexual chemistry of our marriage or our friendship might be altered.

In one way or another, I dealt with all of these fears. In the end I discovered that, while breast cancer certainly changed my wife, it also changed me. It changed us. Not always for the best, nor for the worst. But the illness did change our outlook on life, our awareness of each other, and our image of what each of us desired and needed.

I also emerged from this breast cancer ordeal with some firm beliefs about the role men play in women’s lives. There is something instinctive, nearly animalistic, that rises within a man during a time of crisis. There had never been a time in my life when I was so territorial and protective. I was staking a claim to life, waging a war against an unseen adversary. I protected our evenings, screened phone calls, ran errands. I circled the wagon of our home and marked large Xs on the calendar, blocking off entire days and weeks.

I was able to be the protector when Becky needed strength and reassurance. My nurturing instincts kicked in. I fluffed pillows, cleaned, prepared breakfast in bed for my wife. I even made French toast and lit candles by the bedside. I performed these tasks without any thought of reward or sexual payback. This was a side of my masculinity I had not explored with much regularity before, and I discovered that I enjoyed making my wife comfortable.

Gradually, our lives began to even out and we assumed our familiar way of life. But a part of me remained with my wife’s pain, a pain I am reminded of each time I look at her scar.

A New Perspective
Now every day counts for something. Together we have made parole; we have beaten the rap; we have been set free to make our way in the world. No matter what obstacles we will face tomorrow, we will be able to size up the problem, weigh it against what we have already defeated in the past.

This is the strange outcome of being a cancer survivor, of being the one who walks alongside the patient who has stared death in the face: We are bigger than we were before.