Foot Soldiers
Stories From the Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk
Foot Soldiers
Introduction
By all outward measures, our family was living happily ever after. My husband, Andy, and I had been married for 21 years. He was a defense attorney and I was a pathologist. We were rearing two outgoing, athletic children—a daughter, 15, and a son, 12—who were making all As and saying that they wanted to study law and medicine. Our nice house was in a nice Texas neighborhood, which was near the nice church that we regularly attended. The days of student loans, old Volkswagens, and grungy apartments were long past. Instead, our family was in a wide, grassy place, full of sunshine and possibilities. My metaphor, though, was about to be hit by a train.
Before daybreak on June 4, 1997, we were awakened by someone ringing the doorbell of our rented condominium on South Padre Island. We had arrived past my parents' bedtime the previous night, so I had not yet called to tell them our direct phone number. (Those were the days before ubiquitous cell phones.) The person at the door was a security guard. Among his duties was answering the front desk telephone between 11 PM and 6 AM. He asked if I was Dr. Douglas. When I nodded, he said, "You need to call your mother. Here's the phone number."
At that moment, my father was undergoing emergency surgery for what would turn out to be a highly malignant brain tumor. Although he survived the surgery, we were told that, even with aggressive treatment, he would probably be dead within a year. This was almost inconceivable because he had always been a trim, healthy physician. Besides, my father was supposed to live forever. Unfortunately, his diagnosis was only the first train wreck. The following February, Andy was diagnosed with metastatic rectal cancer. He was 46 years old. I remember beating my fists against a wall and screaming, "This can't be happening."
In August 1998, my father died after being bedridden for the last four months of his life. Almost exactly one year later, In August 1999, Andy died after being essentially bedridden for the last three months of his life. Less than two years later, yet another train appeared on the horizon: I was diagnosed with preinvasive breast cancer (ductal carcinoma in situ [DCIS]). Since I was a pathologist (and supposedly a cancer expert), I was able to convince my beleaguered children that my outcome would be different than their father and grandfather's. "My cancer is just a nuisance," I told them over and over.
Still, despite my excellent prognosis, my attitude toward cancer had already changed. In my professional role, I had once looked upon cancer as an intellectual challenge—something to be recognized, described, and labeled. Searching for and then studying cancer under the microscope had been the most interesting part of my job. Rare cancers and puzzling clinical manifestations of common cancers had been particularly fascinating, and I had shared these cases at the monthly Cancer Conferences of the hospital where I was chief-of-service. When I had come across one of these unusual cases, I had phoned my best friend (a pathologist who worked at a hospital across town) and bragged, "Guess what I've got?"
It was not that I was blind to the suffering caused by cancer prior to June 1997; it was just that I had never faced how cruel and unstoppable cancer could be. Cancer was no longer just a cover-glassed curiosity to be named and numbered in a pathology report. It had become a monster. In fact, by the time I was diagnosed, anxiety had erased any detachment I once had. After all, cancer had ripped holes in my family. Then had attacked me, too. The threat to my children was the worst part. Their father and three of their grandparents had died of cancer, and I had been diagnosed at 48 years old. It was undeniable that cancer might strike them also.
Indirectly, it was anxiety that led me to write this book. In Chapter 6, I admit that the original intent of walking in all 10 of the 2004 Susan G. Komen/National Philanthropic Trust Breast Cancer 3-Day events was to prove that, in spite of my anxiety, I could still be adventurous—or, failing at that, I could at least quit wringing my hands long enough to walk 600 miles. It was only later that I decided to ask other survivors and co-survivors who were also participating to share their stories. I had anticipated that their stories would reflect the complexity of cancer diagnosis, treatment, and survivorship, but the surprise was the diversity of their coping tactics.
This diversity supported the important premise that individuals facing cancer will (and should be allowed to) rely on problem-solving strategies that have worked best for them in the past. Their stories also showed that participation in the 3-Day was not only a chance to "make a difference in the fight against breast cancer," but also a chance to battle negative emotions and struggle with personal conflicts that developed (or intensified) during their cancer experiences.
Before beginning, I need to make something clear: I didn't start out to teach anything important about battling cancer. Neither did the incredible people whom I walked beside. We simply told our stories. It turned out that, together, we teach a great deal.