Just before my fifty-first birthday, I wore a new bra for the first time and that evening I had a very tender spot under my left breast. I put it down to the new bra. The next day it was still sore, but I didn’t think there was a problem. Later in the week, I wore the bra again, and the spot was even worse.
Feeling around the area, I found a spot about the size of the end of my thumb which felt like a blister under the skin. My annual physical was scheduled for the next week, anyway, so I could talk to my doctor about it.
Once she’d examined the area, she said she wasn’t sure what to think. It felt “squishy”—a very technical medical term. The surgeon I saw the next week didn’t feel we needed to be too concerned, but he ordered a diagnostic mammogram. He would remove the lump, just to on the safe side.
Since they weren’t concerned, I wasn’t either. From everything I’d read, a malignant tumor was hard, not squishy. I called his office two days later. They’d received the results, but he hadn’t looked them over yet. After leaving a call-back number, I drove to the training studio to teach the junior martial arts class.
The junior class—ages five to twelve—was always a lively bunch, so I had my hands full. About halfway through class, our secretary told me I had a call. Apologizing for giving me the news over the phone, he said the tests were back and it was malignant. He would schedule my pre-ops and surgery as soon as possible.
As I hung up the phone, I remembered it was my birthday. Great! Happy 51st Mel. You’ve got breast cancer. The rest of the evening was a blur. From this point to the start of chemo, everything seemed to be racing forward, towing me along.
How did my martial arts training come to my rescue?
My training gave me what I call a warrior mindset. I treated this disease as I would any other threat. I attacked instead of backing away in fear and self-pity, as I would have before training. I met several women who gave into self-pity and didn’t make it. As one man I met told me, attitude is everything.
It was time to fight. I went into the OR with my mind on fighting cancer. I came out of anesthesia fighting everyone in reach. A male nurse, beads of perspiration on his forehead, said I was a lot stronger than I looked. The next time, I resolved to have peace and calm during surgery, and it worked much better.
As part of my training, I meditated every day and I feel this helped keep my mind calm and my focus on recovery. There is evidence that regular meditation aids the healing process, and I feel it helped me.
A sense of humor helped, too. My poor oncologist will never recover. Nearly every time he stepped into the exam room my daughter and I were rolling with laughter. I fear he took it personally. Our family is known for its wacky sense of humor, though. We can find something to laugh about in nearly any situation.
Exercise is great for overcoming the effects of chemotherapy and I was used to working out. But I had to redefine my terms. My goal became walking to the mailbox and back each day without help, a total of about fifty yards. I would improve for three weeks, go in for chemo, and start all over.
When my husband flew me to Spain between treatments, we walked in the park across the street nearly everyday. Our favorite restaurant was Vivaldi’s. While he was at work, I had time to sleep and recover with nothing else to worry me. I’m glad I finally agreed to go.
I’ve just turned sixty-one, and my birthday always reminds me of my fight against cancer. I’ve been in remission for nine years, thanks to my husband and our daughter who helped pull me through.
My motto? Don’t let the bastard win.
For more about my fight with breast cancer, go to:
