I read a lot about breast cancer and how it affects those it strikes. Sometimes the reading is hard — like when an intrepid blogger dies from metastatic breast cancer — sometimes the reading is sad — like when a blogger pours out her heart on the topic of life and loss — but usually it’s uplifting, restorative, and comforting.
I’ve not done a good job in this space of writing about — and railing against — metastatic breast cancer, the kind that kills. MBC is every pink-ribbon girl’s biggest fear. Once that cancer leaves the breast and travels to points far afield, usually the liver, bones, and/or brain, the game changes completely. No matter what stage one begins the cancer “journey,” once the cancer spreads, it’s stage IV and incurable. Treatable, but not curable.
The stats on MBC are horrifying, both the number of women who are afflicted and the shockingly low percentage of funds allocated for research: 30 percent of women with early-stage breast cancer will develop MBC, and 90 percent of breast cancer deaths result from MBC yet only 2 percent of funds go toward research for it, according to metavivor.org. MBC is the pink elephant in the room. Or the elephant in the pink room, as the latest metavivor campaign calls it.
I encourage you to click on this link and go to the metavivor website. There are easy ways to get involved and ensure that more funds go toward research for MBC. Each time someone likes metavivor on Facebook, a dollar goes into the research pot. Share the image above on Facebook, add another dollar. Sign up to receive emails from metavivor and add one more Benajamin. Follow metavivor on Twitter, add one more, and mention it on Twitter with the hashtag #MBCAware for one more dollar donated. The money comes from Eisai, a research-based pharmaceutical company. I don’t know how to pronounce its name, but I like what it is doing for oncology research.
I think about MBC a lot. I’ve written about it a lot. Recurrence is the scariest part of the breast cancer “journey,” IMHO, and that’s saying a lot because this “journey” is full of pitfalls, roadblocks, speed bumps, potholes, and unpleasant detours.
Yesterday I read a fantastic post about MBC by Yvonne at Consider the Lillies, and one part really stuck with me. Much of the post resonates, but this part especially, as it perfectly describes the recurrence side of the breast cancer “journey”:
“I am afraid that the cancer that was removed along with my breast, will reappear in my bones or my brain or my liver. That it will sneakily take up residence in a vital organ. So every little headache is a warning bell, every twinge in my left hip is a harbinger of disease. The series of appointments with oncologists, plastic surgeons, breast surgeons is unsettling. Scribbled in a planner, the dates remind me that my life has been forever altered by breast cancer. I suppose I am doing just fine. I’ve even been told I look just like myself, that God would never give me more than I can handle, and admonished to put my “big girl pants on.” The thing is that those tests and scans shocked me once, and I have prepared a little space inside to be shocked once again.”
I pondered this for a long while yesterday, and realized that I too have prepared a little space inside to be shocked once again. It’s one of the many hard truths about the aftermath of cancer. On one hand, surviving such an ordeal provides a zest for life, a desire to gobble up life in big, gulping bites, to live it to the fullest, in whatever form that takes. But on the other hand, it’s hard to live fearlessly and zestfully while waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s not a question of thinking positively or hoping for the best. It goes beyond having done the homework and made the hard decisions and undergone treatments to slay the beast. One can do all of those things and still lose this game. One can do everything right, yet breast cancer recurs. That’s why we prepare that little space inside.
In her post, Yvonne calls for an online revolution about the realities of breast cancer, especially the metastatic kind. I’m in. Me and that little space inside are all in.