The Picture of Health

Aren't we the classic American family? Don't I look healthy? Crazy, isn't it, that I've got a life-threatening illness? Go figure. I find myself living a very double life at the moment. I know I'm sick, but the world at large has no idea.

Take the guy at the gym. I've been trying to get to the gym to work through the stress and anxiety that are often stifling. When I'm there, I work out hard. I sweat. I tune out. I focus. I breathe. It helps.

I was on the recumbent bike, reading my book about breast cancer. This middle-aged guy looked at me and said "You must be a runner."

I say "Nope, bad knees," turning back to the paragraph about surgical drains.

"Oh," he responded. "I just noticed your shoes and strong legs. You seem really focused on working out."

"Oh, my shoes. Well I bought these to do the Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk a few years ago."

"You walked for three days?" he said, in disbelief.

"Yep. 60 miles."

"Without sleeping?"

"Well, no. We walked 20, then slept, then another 20, and so on."

"Why would you do that?"

At this point I was laughing inside ... wanting to jump up and push my book in his face. "Because women like me, who look healthy and strong, get breast cancer and it turns their lives completely upside down. It takes mothers from their children, wives from their spouses. That's why we walk."

But I didn't say that. It wasn't his fault that I was sick, or that I didn't look it. I didn't tell him that my six-year old daughter, when she learned I had cancer, wanted to stage her own walk through the neighborhood so that I would get better.

"It's a very fulfilling experience and it raises money for breast cancer research," I responded. Back to my book once again. Moving on to mastectomy bras. Whoopee.

On Tuesday morning I was face down in an MRI tube having a very uncomfortable biopsy done of my right breast. They had to scan me, numb me, poke me, then essentially roto-rooter seven biopsy samples. After the 45-minute procedure was done, I sat there chatting with the very nice radiologist as he held a gauze pad on my breast to stop the bleeding. He know what I had and what I was facing.

Three hours later I was presenting in front of a large homebuilding client in Orange County. "If you want to maximize the efficiency of your online advertising spend, your best bet is a combination of pay per click and rich media display advertising," I told the group of six.

Ouch. The anesthetic is wearing off and I feel like there's a knife in my breast. Oh no, what if it starts bleeding while I'm standing here? "And it's critical to determine what your measure of success will be. Are we looking for impressions? Conversions? Phone calls?"

Now I feel woozy, and no one in this room has any idea what's going on inside of me. Weird. I get through it and make my way home, where I collapse in bed.

The great irony of this disease is that not until they are working to heal me will I actually look sick. By this time on Monday my body will be forever transformed. While it can be restructured, and some would argue made even better than it is now, it will never be the same. If I have chemotherapy, I will not only feel sick from the poison that will fight the cancer, but I will look sick as my hair falls out and my white blood cell count drops. It could be months before I once again look healthy without the aid of makeup, wigs, and prosthetics.

But I will be healthy. I will feel healthy. I will look healthy. And I will once again where the badge of cancer survivor with honor and pride.

The note to self for today? Never assume that the way a person looks on the outside is any indication of what's really going on on the inside.