Operation Attitude
GOD'S SECRET WEAPON: HUMORBy J. LissnerAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 J. Lissner
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-1279-3Chapter One
Words cannot describe the mind-numbing fear and confusion I felt when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. At the time, I was already emotionally drained from worrying about the end of my marriage, my kids, my finances, and going back to work.
I still had my faith, but as the year dragged on, my situation felt more and more precarious. I wasn't even carrying my own health insurance. That was through my soon to be ex-husband's company. I was frazzled and discouraged. I prayed tearfully for Christ to help me find the peace and joy Scripture promises. And what did I hear?
"Conehead."
I couldn't see any connection between my struggles and some crazy comedy about aliens with heads shaped like cones. How could that be God's answer to my coping with cancer? I kept getting an image of me sitting in the treatment room wearing a conehead. I continued to ask God what looking and acting like a fool could possibly accomplish.
It took me awhile to accept this as The Almighty's solution. For obvious reasons, I thought I'd misinterpreted the message. Discernment can be very difficult in prayer. I prayed again and again. One word kept coming to mind. "Conehead." I thought the chemotherapy drugs were causing serious side effects. Yet, still I got, "Conehead." Day after day, I received the same stupid answer.
Finally I figured I'd give the Old Boy the benefit of the doubt. I purchased a conehead and some crazy wigs and wore them to my cancer treatments. The goofy outfits helped refocus my thoughts. The more positive and upbeat I was, the more positive and upbeat those around me were. It was strange, perhaps not as strange as what I was wearing, but the transformation was truly miraculous. Instead of being depressed, we were laughing together. Others may have laughed at me instead of with me, but I don't get hung up on syntax. Fun is fun and joy is joy. When you're sick or depressed, it doesn't matter where it comes from, humor can heal.
I'd never done anything outrageous before. I was relatively normal; at least I thought I was. Accepting the conehead solution was not easy, especially at a time when my entire future was questionable. Many people have similar experiences. They receive lots of major challenges all at the same time. Like me, they become overwhelmed.
For me, 1999 was a difficult year of mind-boggling portions. Yet, it turned out to be a great blessing. Not because it was easy, but because I learned how to face challenges, big and little. God works things out according to His purpose, but I have to cooperate. My part was controlling my thoughts and reactions. How I thought and acted made a huge difference-much more than I expected. I was called to use humor and a positive attitude to weather my storms of life. Through God's grace, I received joy and peace in the midst of my struggles and you can too.
I had been a stay-at-home mom for nine years when I separated from my husband in 1998. It was a pivotal time in my faith journey. I needed to learn to trust God, His love for me, and His ability to care for me. My first act of letting go was tithing. My household income dropped by two-thirds after the separation. I stayed in the same house with most of the same expenses. It seemed like a terrible time to increase giving, but I took the leap of faith anyway. I believe that is one reason I have been so blessed.
I had no desire to return to my previous career in banking. I wanted to work at home to be available for my young sons. I felt it was finally time to invest in my dream of becoming an author. I cut back everything that wasn't essential. As long as no unexpected expenses came up, I could make ends meet. Finances were tight, but I was home with my boys and publishing my first novel.
In the spring of 1999, I went in for my annual pap smear. I was feeling fine. I had no reason to see a doctor. I saw the physician's assistant instead. While I was spread-eagle in the stirrups, my PA suggested I get a baseline mammogram.
I said, "Yes," without thinking, which is what one does in that position. My first mammogram was supposed to be a baseline. It never occurred to me it would show problems. I expected to get a postcard in the mail stating my test was normal.
I had spent years writing my first novel. I was ecstatic to finally be not just a writer, but, drum roll ... an author. One morning I was meeting a marketing man at my house. We were sitting at my dining room table. I had the phone beside me. I intended to take a call from my son's doctor and then turn off the phone.
About half an hour into the meeting, the phone rang, except it was my doctor's office. They had found some questionable cells on my mammogram. They wanted to schedule a biopsy to check for cancer. I was caught completely off guard. I'd never given the test a second thought. I didn't feel I could ask which breast in front of Mr. Marketing. I was too flustered to think clearly. I told him I had to take the call and ushered him out the door. So much for professionalism.
The mammogram showed a small cluster of suspicious cells. On the X-rays, they looked like a bunch of white dots, each the size of large grains of sand. I scheduled the biopsy and did some research. Ninety-seven percent of biopsies come back benign. I figured I'd take those odds. I was young. I was healthy and didn't fall into any big risk groups. Plus, my lifestyle should have reduced my chances of cancer. I never drank alcohol, never smoked, had two kids before the age of thirty, breast-fed both boys, and had no family history of breast cancer.
My only reservation was I'd heard the procedure could be painful. I called my mom. She agreed to come in town and help with my young sons after the biopsy. (I'll be referring to her as just plain, old Mom from here forward. For the sake privacy, I have given everyone in this book a pet name. Their names reflect who they are or what they do.)
The biopsy was an interesting procedure. I actually found it fascinating. It must be my minor in biology. Dr. Squeeze 'Em Up (you'll understand why I call him that in a moment) had me strapped to a table. The table was tilted until I was staring at the floor. My suspicious cells were on the left underside. The tilted position gave the doctor access to the tissue. I'm hanging there, and there was plenty hanging, I assure you. The tech put my left breast between two clear plastic mammogram plates. The plates were pressed together tightly. So I'm upside down, and what's hanging was squeezed between two plates. Comfy, huh?
Then the fun started. Directed by the mammogram image, the doctor maneuvered a needle through my breast to the questionable spots. He suctioned out a number of tissue samples. I could hear the little vacuum suctioning away. The whole procedure didn't take long. When I peeked at the petri dish, there were about twenty snakes of flesh. They looked like they came out of a small coffee stirrer.
At the end of the procedure, the nurse said she normally wrapped patients with an Ace bandage. Due to my location and exceptional size, an Ace bandage wouldn't help. I was instructed to wear a bra for twenty-four hours. I walked out absolutely fine. I could easily have taken care of my kids. I apologized to Mom for driving four hours for nothing. I wasn't the least bit concerned I had cancer. We went out to lunch and had a great time.
My follow-up visit was the following Monday. Dr. Squeeze 'Em Up examined my incision area. It was fine. We were also supposed to discuss the test results, but the pathology report had been delayed. Dr. Squeeze 'Em Up offered mean other appointment to talk about the biopsy's findings. I was confident everything was fine and saw no reason to return. I told the doctor, "Call me with the results."
I will never forget that short phone conversation. I was dumbfounded to hear I had breast cancer. I phoned Mom and told her the news - not the easiest call to make, because my dad had died of lymphoma years before. Mom and I didn't talk long. I only had fifteen minutes before I was due at the kids' school.
It is our family tradition that I take the boys a special lunch to school on their birthdays. FirstBorn had just turned ten. I left immediately, picked up McDonald's, and celebrated FirstBorn's "Happy Birthday Lunch." After lunch I went to SecondBorn's class and helped with the computers.
I held it together with the kids. When I came home, a friend's car was in the driveway. She had three young children and was in the process of selling her house. I had given her a key to mine. She'd gotten a surprise call from a realtor. She and her kids were at my place while hers was being shown. God provided someone to hold me and fall apart with. It was a blessing not to return to an empty house with urgent messages from my doctor's office. I was scheduled to see the general surgeon that afternoon at 3:00. I had to find someone to watch my boys after school. I called another friend. She volunteered to drive me to the doctor and arranged for her husband to pick up my kids from school.
I had previously committed to bring dinner to an older couple from church. I had a few hours to finish that meal and get ready. My friend picked me up. We dropped the dinner off early and headed to the doctor.
The general surgeon, whom I'll refer to as Dr. Cut 'Em Up, informed me I had a very early form of breast cancer called Ductal Carcinoma In Situ, or DCIS for those of us that can't pronounce medical mumbo jumbo. This was a fancy way of saying the cancer was inside individual cells and hadn't spread outside the cell walls, which was good news. It meant the cancer hadn't spread to other parts of my body.
Dr. Cut 'Em Up informed me I needed a modified lumpectomy. He would go in and remove about the size of a tennis ball from my left breast. I was not to worry about looking lopsided. He reassured me my insurance company would cover plastic surgery for an implant. I was very busty and had always wanted a reduction. Even distraught, I retorted, "If you take anything out, there is no way someone is putting it back in." I declared I would get a reduction to even things out.
The night I was diagnosed, my best friend, Nursey, came over. She held me while I cried and reassured me I would be fine. She teaches nursing and was able to answer many of the questions racing through my brain. I called on her knowledge and expertise many times.
I immediately started praying, and they weren't praise and thanksgiving prayers, either. Let's face it, when tragedy strikes, we aren't saying, "Thank you, God for making me miserable." I asked for help and healing, but was mostly angry with God. I felt going through a divorce was more than enough stress. But no, now I had cancer too. I had some major prayer temper tantrums. I wanted to know, "Why me?" I told God, "It's not fair!" I asked, "Where were the angels that were supposed to be protecting me?"
I wanted God to take away my problems. He didn't. Instead, God helped me through them. I had to consciously look to see His loving hand. It took days before I could feel anything besides fear and resentment. Slowly, I forced myself to count my blessings and focus on the positives.
One blessing was the whirlwind of commitments I had the day I was diagnosed. I was too busy to consider dying. By the time I left Dr. Cut 'Em Up's office, I was confident death wasn't a possibility. My cancer was detected early. The mammogram probably saved my life. The doctors speculated without the mammogram it could have taken five years to detect my cancer.
After I was diagnosed, I ran into my physician's assistant at a social event. I told her I was impressed that her office offered baseline mammograms for women under forty. Most of my younger friends were not offered baselines unless they were in a risk group. She stated her office policy was baseline mammograms at forty. I asked why she had ordered a mammogram for me since I had made no complaints and was in no risk group. She said she had a bad feeling and always listened to her instincts. Wow! To me that is nothing short of a miracle. Perhaps God had sent a few angels to watch over me.
So that was how I began my undress-from-the-waist-up journey. With breast cancer, you can toss modesty right out the door. From day one there was a long line of highly trained men who, within minutes of meeting me, were handling my breasts. The parade of practitioners who perused my plums was endless. Every single, solitary peruser agreed my cancer could not be detected through a physical exam, yet they all felt it was necessary to check.
In addition to Dr. Cut 'Em Up, I had three other main doctors: Dr. Shape 'Em Up (the plastic surgeon); Dr. Drug 'Em Up (the chemotherapy oncologist); and Dr. Burn 'Em Up (the radiation oncologist). Naturally, all four chosen by my insurance company were men. Each and every one of them, plus mammogram takers, technicians, nurses, various extra doctors, and, as far as I can tell, everyone else on the planet, has seen and thoroughly examined my breasts. I sincerely appreciate their thoroughness and concern throughout my long and painful journey.
Chapter Two
The next few weeks were a big blur. I had three more doctors to see. It was impossible to absorb all the information. The purpose of surgery is to remove known groups of cancer cells. The goal of radiation is to kill any local cells left in the area. Chemotherapy is designed to kill systemic cells, meaning it destroys stray cells that traveled through the blood to other parts of the body.
I took another person to each doctor's appointment because I was receiving so much information. My secretary for the day took notes, which freed me up to listen and ask questions. SisterOne surprised me by flying into town and attending the first two-hour meeting with the oncologist. She took pages of notes about the risks, side effects, and survival rates for each of my options. Obviously it was very important to get those facts right. The notes were a big help later when I had to sort out the pros and cons of each option and make treatment decisions.
The plastic surgeon was concerned about my breast reduction request. Not because I wasn't large enough, but because he didn't want me making a "big" decision under duress and regretting it later. He asked how long I had considered a reduction. I told him, "Twenty years." He was comfortable after that. I may have hated cancer, but the reduction surgery was a thankful bonus.
After visiting all the doctors and reviewing my options, I formed a plan of attack. Dr. Cut 'Em Up would perform a modified lumpectomy. He would leave me open. Dr. Shape 'Em Up would follow with the much-desired bilateral breast reduction. If the pathology didn't show any surprises, and nobody expected it would, I would finish with radiation for a total of three months of treatment. No chemotherapy would be necessary because there was no invasive cancer.
Next came the hard part: telling my boys. FirstBorn was just ten and SecondBorn only seven. I was in the process of getting a divorce, so the kids had a counselor. I called her. I didn't want the boys hearing the word "cancer" and thinking I was going to die. They had enough insecurity in their lives. I told their father (hereafter called Ex) and the four of us went to the counselor together.
We explained what the doctor found and my treatment plan. I was glad I had enlisted an expert's advice. I hadn't thought to explain who would take care of the boys while I was in treatment, but it was important for them to know. It reassured them we would all be taken care of.
The counselor emphasized to me privately that the kids would take their cues from me. Children are very sensitive to adults' emotional undertones. It was not going to be enough for me to pretend I was fine in front of the kids. I was going to have to be fine, or the unknown fears they sensed would affect them.
* * *
I'm from a large family of eight kids. Mom had planned a family reunion in June for her children, their spouses, and the grandchildren; a small gathering of 36 of my closest relatives. The doctors felt there were no reasons for me to miss it. My surgery was scheduled for immediately after the reunion on June 22, 1999.
We had a wonderful vacation at Fripp Island, a 3,000-acre private island in South Carolina. Somehow, there was a major mix-up, and my family and BrotherThree's family were forced to stay in a luxury condo a block away. Our house was known as the "quiet" house, which is a relative term when there are 36 relatives traipsing through and 21 of those are children. The other two condos were right on the ocean. Every day we trotted down the back steps, onto the beach, and into the surf. We had a marvelous time playing in the sand, riding the waves, and swimming.
We also had plenty of quality family interactions that fostered love and interdependence. For example, all the kids were instructed to bring their Star Wars light sabers. The battles between the forces of good and evil were endless, although it was difficult to tell which was which in any given duel.
At night, people converged on our "quiet" house and attempted to conquer the world in the board game Risk. They yelled, screamed, groaned, and cheered as treaties were made and broken; the weak ganged up on the strong; armies were destroyed; and world conquest was finally achieved. What better way to promote family bonding than through saber fights and mock wars?
We also had daily devotionals and prayed together. Some of the adults gave presentations. I spoke about my fears and how God provided me with a special verse for reassurance: Jeremiah 29:11, "For I know the plans that I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Operation Attitudeby J. Lissner Copyright © 2009 by J. Lissner. Excerpted by permission.
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