Breast Cancer: Worst. Retirement. Gift. Ever.

As soon as my retirement was “board approved,” I put on my rose-colored glasses and started dreaming about retirement life (AKA… Act II). I could exercise every day, run whatever destination races I could find, more yoga, more surfing, maybe hike a bit of the Appalachian Trail. My garden would be epic, and I’d teach myself all kinds of DIY projects around the house. I’d spend more time with family and friends than I was able to before.

Would I work part-time for some “pocket change” to feed my travel habits? Maybe substitute at a private school and/or tutor privately three days a week, leaving other days for creative pursuits. Maybe copywriting or getting my own book of essays published? I updated my LinkedIn profile and I started casually applying to or inquiring about potential gigs. More than anything, I wanted to customize a job that included travel, writing, photography and animals.

I was also relishing the idea of being able to visit my sons (in their respective states of Indiana and Maryland) without having to take a personal day, a weekend or a school holiday. And I started conceptualizing the dream retirement trip I would take with Roy to the Azores in late September for epic hiking, kayaking and watching whales migrate in the “Hawaii of Europe” archipelago. After that, maybe audition for “Naked and Afraid: Super Fan Challenge.”

But the universe had other plans for me in the form of a giant curveball. Just a mere two weeks after I dared to dream about my Act II, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Worst. Retirement. Gift. Ever. And the “gift” was presented at the same time I was trying to wrap up my teaching career (middle-schoolers in June are a keep-you-on-your-toes bunch), an ailing father in decline and I had just weaned off of medication for anxiety and OCD because I was crushing it with my cognitive behavioral therapy. Not only was this the worst retirement gift ever, it was the most poorly timed gift, even though “never” is a good time to be diagnosed with cancer.

The rest is a blur of medical appointments, procedures, phone calls, plans not made, expectations gutted, and a hodgepodge of shock, anger, and sadness. I will delve deeper into the cancer experience through my Cancer Chronicles blog (which may or may not be a real thing; it may be my “hot mess” talking), but for now, I will just highlight some of the good, the bad and the ugly.

The Bad/Ugly:

Double mastectomy with reconstruction surgeries and lengthy recovery to look forward to. Duh.

I live a very clean life. I don’t drink, smoke, use drugs. I exercise regularly, maintain a healthy weight, I get lots of sun and fresh air, get enough sleep. Negating potential genetic links, I am clearly doing “life” all wrong. Maybe I should take a cue from George Costanza and do the opposite of everything I have always done.

The bedside manner, or lack thereof, of the first breast surgeon. Not only did she talk a mile a minute, she threw out words like “disfigured” and I might want to “talk to plastics” — no easing into the news. This was said even before there was a biopsy to confirm results. When she was done speaking, she stood up and led me to the door. She did give me a hug in the doorway, but left me feeling violated by the news, then discarded at the door when she was done speaking, Miss Important Surgeon. (Yes, dramatic, but cancer diagnosis = big feelings.)

The needle biopsy procedure. The apparatus and procedure can only be described as a medieval torture chamber. I had to sit completely erect in a high-back chair, my left breast smashed into a mammogram-like machine. My left arm was bent at a 90-degree angle on an armrest and my right arm had to dangle at my side. I was told to hold my breath for the majority of the time so that images could be taken and tissue samples could be extracted from two different masses. The cherry on top was when the radiologist initially looked at my breast images on the screen and blurted out, “I don’t like how that looks at all!” Not reassuring, but at least he was honest. After the procedure, my chest was wrapped in a big bandage (think: tightest tube top money can buy), and I was sent on my way. I spent the rest of the day/evening in fetal position.

Being a black-and-white thinker with anxious tendencies, I like to make plans. I usually have a Plan A, B and C. I don’t want surprises and I want to be prepared for any/every scenario. Cancer took the ability to plan away from me, so now I have to pivot and create a different mindset. Very difficult to do at age 55.

The nurse navigator. The breast surgeon punted me off to this individual after her mic drop. The way he (Ned Flanders look-alike from “The Simpsons”) greeted me with the two-handed clasp and saccharine voice asking me how I was feeling immediately made me feel like I was in an “SNL” sketch; he was a parody. When he presented me with a folder that basically welcomed me to the cancer center, and proceeded to rattle off upcoming appointments I needed to remember, I wanted to punch him in the throat. I didn’t, but I wanted to.

I hate the color pink (always have, always will), which is the designated color for breast cancer. I don’t want to see it or wear it.

The Good:

The cancer was caught early, so my chances for survival are excellent.

I am retired, so I have the time to make a full recovery without the stress of work.

I have great health insurance, and I have the ability to choose where to seek my medical treatment from many top-notch medical institutions.

I have an amazing support system of family and friends who I know will show up whenever I need them. They have already come through in big ways I never expected.

The “lessons” to be learned — I hate being dependent on people and asking for help in general. I now recognize that I need help and will graciously and gratefully accept any/all help. And I have to learn how to catch any future curveball that life throws my way, regardless of plans or expectations.

Still, Universe, I’d like to return my “gift,” or at least exchange it for something that is more my taste….

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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