Why My Breast Cancer Diagnosis Is a Blessing

My dense breast tissue makes the standard screenings less reliable. It took weeks to schedule appointments. Was I the only one in a rush to find out if this was just a cyst from my underwire bra? I was already in a nervous state, out of town, when my positive biopsy results came in. Great timing! Now what?

The early days are psychologically the most challenging. Who knew there were so many types of breast cancer and so many treatment options? My imaging team pointed me to an oncologist who pointed me to a surgeon and they both agreed that the pea-sized tumor was caught early and assured me there was no sign of lymph node involvement.

I opted for a lumpectomy (a partial mastectomy), and they recommended radiation to kill any stray cancer or precancerous cells (DCIS). Statistics showed there would be no added benefit with chemo. Hallelujah! The weeks anticipating the surgery were far worse than the operation itself in a brand-new high-tech hospital that felt like a five-star hotel.

In the post-op appointment, my surgeon reported that she did not get “good margins” and needed to re-excise. She also wanted to remove the sentinel lymph node this time just to be safe. I assured her early on that I was not concerned with breast conservation or reconstruction and told her to use as big a spoon as necessary. She went in again.

Surprise — those dangerous cells had snuck into my lymph node, so the original plan of 16 radiation sessions got bumped up to a bonus 20. Now I am on a five-to-ten-year regimen of daily, tiny, hormone-blocking pills and horse-sized calcium supplements.

It was difficult at first for me to reconcile having this disease with my sense of self. I have always been the strong one with a robust immune system — older sister, wife, mother. I am the caregiver. At first, I kept it secret. Then I told my sisters and closest friends, but I said I didn’t want to discuss it.

I was protecting my two grown sons and daughters-in-law when I said I was perfectly fine. But slowly, I learned to acknowledge my own frailty, and paradoxically, this allowed my loved ones to express their love and concern for me. What a humbling journey, an unexpected gift and a lesson for my life.

Rebecca Cross hiking in Borrego Springs, California.

Courtesy Rebecca Cross

Suddenly there were floods of loving texts and FaceTime sessions with both my busy children and close friends. My older son in Los Angeles carved out time with his three daughters to see me at my home on the opposite coast for a heavenly, long visit. We enjoyed unhurried talks about his film editing, balancing career with fatherhood and plans for the girls’ education. I told him he was getting ahead of himself when he started showing me and my husband cool condos near his house. Though I was deeply touched, he was lobbying to get me closer.

Last summer, both my sisters flew in together for a week to pamper me, bringing chocolates and around-the-clock dishwashing. We hiked, played charades and flipped through family albums, giggling — their synchronized cackling is legend. By the end of the love-fest, I was jokingly saying how much I cherished cancer! I have never felt so adored.

My husband has been his best self and has taken over most of our domestic realm. A fiercely protective gatekeeper, he also helps me read the obtuse lab results and makes me laugh. He loudly sings the refrain of a country-and-western tune, “Live Like You Were Dying.” This mantra allows him to take risks like flying ultralights to find his bliss.

Of course, we are all always dying and Tim McGraw was talking about riding a bull, but it’s a good mantra for a health scare too. Live fully and purposefully. Treasure your loved ones and, with humility and gratitude, allow them to treasure you.