Ginger's Story

The night was filled with excitement as we sat around the large oak table at my mom’s house. It was October 31st 2006 - Halloween - and the entire family had gathered to share in the festivities. The 'oohs' and 'aahs' over the creative costumes had already been given and candy had been passed around to appease the children. As I sat there, staring into the faces of my six sisters and my parents, I couldn't believe what I was going to have to tell them. "I have some good news and some bad news" I began. I could see the anticipation in their faces, not knowing what was coming. "I'm five months pregnant...and I was diagnosed with breast cancer this afternoon." Faces that were at first excited turned immediately to shock. And that's how my story began.

I was 31 years old with no history of breast cancer in my immediate family, 5 months pregnant with two other children, and with six sisters whose lives changed after one mere phrase. The words 'Breast Cancer' alone can strike fear into the heart of any woman. But add it to the word 'Pregnant' and it takes on a whole new meaning. I remember sitting in the surgeon’s office as he spoke the words of my diagnosis. What was thought to be nothing because of its appearance on my areola, turned out to be invasive cancer. Many questions should have run through my mind - What would this mean for me and for my unborn child? How will I get through this? - But they didn't. Instead I just smiled and said, "Ok what do we do first?" I was instantly in survival mode. I had been through tough times before and had found the means to be happy and to turn bad situations into good ones and this new diagnosis of breast cancer wasn't going to be any different. I would be happy and I would find a way to help others during my journey. At least by so doing I would find peace within myself and that would pull me through the rough times ahead. And so it began.

My first mastectomy was while I was 6 months pregnant. And although I joked with my surgeon and operating room nurses about how fashionable their blue hats and scrubs were I was nervous about the outcome. How would this all work out? What would it be like only have on breast? Could I still breast feed my newborn baby? After the surgery and the bandages were removed I mourned the loss of my breast as other survivors have. The difference for me was that I only have large breasts when I'm pregnant, so it was a double whammy to have one of my 'rewards' removed during its prime! Other cancer survivors who are not pregnant also don't understand the feeling you get as you look in the mirror and see a HUGE pregnant belly and only one breast. Many in my situation would have cried for days - but I just couldn't. For me it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen! Laughter became my medicine.

I waited to have my auxiliary node dissection until May of 2007 after the birth of my son and the cancer had spread. My final diagnosis was Stage 2B. Next stop - Chemotherapy. Let the fun begin.

Imagine being a student in first grade who has been assigned to take a college class for individuals in their 30s. Now add on another 30 to 40 years and that's what it felt like walking into the chemo room. First of all, I was way too young to be there, and second, no one in the room was smiling. I had never been around anyone with cancer before, or seen the affects it can take on a person. I was shocked to see that all the treatment chairs were full and everyone looked so solemn and sad. I soon learned why firsthand. They were being killed on a cellular level and I was next.

Chemotherapy is what should be given to criminals instead of jail time. I'm convinced that it would be the 'cure all' for those who choose to violate the law. One strong dose and they would NEVER want to be bad again. But no, instead it's given to the un-expecting people who just want to live good lives a little bit longer. If you've never experienced the effects of Chemotherapy, there's really no way to explain it properly. It's something you have to experience because of the intense, horrible, wrenching, disgusting, gross, foul, loathsome (and one more adjective for emphasis) yucky reactions you have to it. Everyone's experience with chemo is different but we all have one thing in common - the experience isn't good.

After my first treatment I understood why the other people in the Chemo room didn't smile and I was determined to do something about that. But what can you do for sick people who don't really want to be bothered during treatment? And what could I do being a mother of 3 with a newborn baby, working full time from home and being beat down by the effects of chemotherapy? Then after a sleepless night I figured it out. BINGO! Quite literally...Bingo. You can do it sitting down, I would be the caller and the patients would just have to mark a square on a piece of paper, then I could hand out prizes to whoever won - BUT my oncologist didn't think that was such a great idea. So on to idea number two...I'd just give out prizes...awards for just being alive, for being a fighter. For taking our chemo medicine and for living one more day. We should be rewarded just for being strong enough to be a survivor. And so that's what I did for the entire 6 months I had my chemo treatments. I contacted local businesses on my 'good' days and drove around with my kids to pick up the donated prizes. We had gift certificates from Target, Home Depot, Red Robin, Great Harvest, Wendy's and more. People opened their hearts to my 'Do Good, Feel Better' project and gave freely. You should have seen the faces of the chemo patients on the first day of my treatment when I told them there were going to win prizes for being in the chemo room. It was so memorable. Some were shocked, some didn't want to participate (at first) but most welcomed the change.

As the months rolled on, a younger person than me entered the chemo room. He was 18 and had testicular cancer. He was quiet and shy at first, but after winning the prizes and interacting with the others in the room during 'prize time, he soon opened up and we all enjoyed his contributions to the conversations. The chemo room on Thursdays was the place to be - I'd hand out prizes, sing the occasional upbeat song to the patients and even got my favorite nurse, Daryl, to dance a jig. Many patients even changed their appointment times to be able to be there for the giveaways. Now in telling all this I don't want to portray someone who is bragging about what I did - or oooh look at me - I'm so wonderful. It's not that at all. What I want to get across is that good things can come from bad experiences if we are willing to open our hearts to others and share the goodness inside. I received FAR more than I ever gave away. I gained happiness, peace and the opportunity to live a longer life with my dear husband and children. Other friends in the chemo room weren't as fortunate and I've mourned losing them.

During my chemo experience my slogan has been 'Just Keep Swimming' taken from the song sung by Dori on the movie Finding Nemo. In life we all have to 'Just Keep Swimming' no matter what kinds of currents we face. No one is exempt from the difficulties of life and if you think the grass is greener on the other side you might want to double check because it's most likely artificial turf. We all have challenges to overcome - but by reaching out to help others, we find that our hands are open to receive what they have to share with us in return.

My chemo experience ended in November of 2007 but the memories and the friendships I made remain. Since then I've had a second mastectomy in Feb. of 08 and an ovary removed in June. I jokingly tell everyone they can now call me 'Jim' since I look more like a man every day. :) My battle continues but so does my determination to stay positive through this journey. It's not always easy and I admit that I've had my moments of utter grief and self pity, but I also have memories of those in the chemo room who had it much worse that I did and I remember to be grateful that I 'just' have breast cancer. I've seen worse.

To top off my experience, after I completed chemotherapy, my father was diagnosed with Stage 4 esophageal cancer. I can not explain the great blessing it is to be able to look my dad in the eyes and honestly say 'I completely understand what you're going through. I know the pain you'll feel and the thoughts that will roll through your mind. Dad, I'm here.' The role of caregiver has been reversed and I find that because of my cancer experience I am, once again, able to offer love, support and understanding to someone dear who's going through the cancer battle field.

Although I never want to endure chemo again, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. It has changed who I am. It made me a better person and forced me to choose what type of person I was going to be: Someone who helped, or someone who just hurt.

To those of you who have fought the fight and continue to win daily, look for others who need your love, support and understanding. You can offer so much because you know what it's really like and can offer true empathy. You can be a pillar of strength to those who are scared and down hearted. For those of you who have just been diagnosed - don't worry - there are those who have gone before who can help you and although the time ahead will be a challenge - you can do it. You have more strength inside of you than you know and more people who love and will support you than you can imagine. It will be alright. You can get through this. Just keep swimming.

I'm currently in the process of tracking down a plastic surgeon I can trust to complete my reconstruction. So my journey continues. Looking like a 3 year old is only fun for so long...scratch that - it's never fun. But it's one of the last things that need to be completed before I'll feel like this part of my journey is coming to a close.

You asked us to share our greatest challenge and the interesting thing I've found, is that for me, my battle through breast cancer hasn't been dealing with the pain, lack of strength, or self image issues. The hardest thing for me to overcome has been guilt. I feel guilt due to the fact that I've created more debt for my family. Even if it was unintentional - the bills keep coming in and I'm the reason for it. Chemo leaves your body, your hair eventually grows back, the memories of the aches and pains fade - but the bills still have to be paid. Somehow.

BUT, as always, we do what we can, a little at a time, everyday until we reach our goal. We keep swimming and moving forward and we help others along the way. Together we survive.