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Fading Memories of the Trauma
by Mary Jane Van Sant
Sept. 1998

I don’t remember the details of how the conversation began. My 6-year old, Jason and my 13-year old, Timmy were discussing traumas. Jason was arguing that if he ever had to have stitches, unlike Timmy, he would let Mom leave the emergency room long enough for her to go to the bathroom. Timmy defensively replied, "Until you have stitches, you don’t know what you would do!" I then said, "I think we will have to trust Timmy on this one, since I’ve never had stitches".

The next day, as if being slapped in the face, I thought "How could I have made that statement?" The scar is on the left side of my chest, starting two inches above my armpit, extending nearly 12 inches down to my waist, and two inches wide in some places. According to my husband, since at the time, I could not dare look at such an offensive sight, there had also been staples, in addition to the stitches.

I had for the first time in 14 years, really forgotten.

During conversations, mostly in jest, I have often made the statement that "God gave women an incredible gift, the ability to replace pain with joy". Why else would many of us choose the experience of childbirth a second time. But when periodically asked by breast cancer patients, who I’ve shared my experiences with, "Do you ever really get over it", my answer had always been "I don’t think so".

Having been trained as an analytical chemist, I can’t help the tendency to continually analyze my own behavior. So as I’ve lived through the trauma, I have also noted how I have coped.

I had always been very healthy and at the age of 31 regularly attended aerobics’ class. In April, just four months from summer commencement exercises, when I would experience one of the best moments of my life, I experienced the worst. My surgeon spoke just three words as I awoke from the biopsy, "It is bad". Four days later, my husband told me, "Honey, you don’t want to look at the stitches".

I was very fortunate. I did not have to have chemotherapy, so within a few weeks of the aggressive surgery, I would get back to my "normal" routine. In Hawaii, while we celebrating my new Ph.D and my good luck, so far, (no lymph node involvement) we got our second bit of shocking news, Timmy had been conceived.

That September I began my teaching career. In order to cope with the mixed joy of expecting our first baby and fear of a re-occurance during pregnacy, I became involved with the Reach to Recovery organization, a peer support group for breast cancer patients. They needed a "young" volunteer and I found comfort and healing in sharing my time and experiences. For about four and half years, those activities and the joy of motherhood were the most significant way in which I coped with cancer. I read voraciously and found the following books gave me significant inspiration and courage: Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl, It’s Always Something by Gilda Radner, and Love, Medicine, and Miracles by Bernie S. Siegel. Three years after the surgery, I expressed my emotional reconciliation with death and dying by writing a poem.

As a young person, I had always been responsible, it seemed I was born that way. There had been occasions when I experimented with recklessness: got disgustingly drunk once, sailed in a violent storm without a life preserver, and "inhaled" one time. But after cancer and motherhood, I became jacketed with a more fervent sense of responsibility. I don’t drive at night unless absolutely necessary. I avoid air travel as much as I can. All senses are on alert whenever I walk through a parking lot. I think "How stupid to be killed in an accident after beating cancer."

When folks ask why we waited nearly seven years to have a second child, I respond with one of two answers. My most frequent response is "Until Timmy showed a significant leap of independence at the age of six, I did not think my husband and I could keep our sanity rearing more than one child in a dual career family." The second answer that I sometimes share is: "when I had asked my surgeon why John and I should wait at least five years before having children, his reply was "You probably don’t want to leave your husband with a motherless child". Timmy was a miracle of God, Jason was planned.

Ironically, cancer has at the same time allowed me the freedom to take other types of risks by redefining my fears and fear of failure. A few years ago I actually attended a stand-up comedy workshop and was a "hit" in my performance at a local club. It was not the typical activity or risk taken by a nerdy introverted chemist. Wow! What an incredible adrenaline surge, a hundred times better than the best roller coaster ride!

For me, time is extremely valuable and I feel a commitment to utilize that gift as prudently as possible. I have had a very successful career, primarily because of my freedom to do what I really love and want to do. When making a career decision, I simply ask, "What’s the worst that can happen?" Having to find a new job is a minor risk. I live a relatively worry free existence, anything short of death is really not that bad (and I even have a calm perspective about that). I am happy.

The trauma of cancer has been compartmentalized behind a gate in my psyche. As the years have passed, the memories or impact of the memories have burst through the gate less frequently. That recent conversation with my children proved that the scars to the psyche can fade. I can now answer, yes, you can get over it, at least some of it.

There is still one aspect that I have difficulty coping with. Whenever I read or hear about someone who is losing or has lost the battle against breast cancer, I feel the conflicts of guilt, sadness, and gratitude, which leads to more guilt. I continually wonder "Why have I been so fortunate to have survived the original bleak odds?" I have empathy; yet I am grateful that I have survived. And, I feel more guilt. Thus far, the way I have coped with these feeling is to become more committed to making the most of my life. No one chooses to join this breast cancer sorority, but having been inducted, I feel the sisterhood, especially with those who have lost the battle. Their dying touches my soul and has allowed me to live and have two precious sons. Remember, I am a scientist and believe in the laws of probability. I beat some pretty tough odds, which meant someone else had to have lost.

Cancer may have left some unattractive physical scars, but it has also had an enriching impact. I would not wish cancer on anyone, but from the fortunate perspective of survival, I would wish the positive benefits it has had on my life to everyone. I am focused. I have a strong commitment to my family. I continually strive to ensure that I make a significant contribution to the company I work for and my community. I work very hard at preparing my children for productive, happy lives. I know that I will never really retire, I have too much to do.

Apparently, memories of the trauma of breast cancer can fade. But, I will not forget those women who have been less fortunate than I. They are often in my thoughts and prayers. After 14 and a half years, I no longer feel that I am living with cancer, though the cancer experience will always be a part of my life.