An Aha Moment

A funny thing happened on the way to chemo a couple of months ago. Not funny haha, but funny aha. I had just stepped into the elevator and pushed No. 2 for the cancer floor when I noticed a former colleague studying some papers, leaning against the wall opposite me.

"Hi," I said, craning my neck to the side to catch her eye.

She looked up and stared blankly at me for around 10 seconds, and then her hands flew to her cheeks. Her face and neck turned burgundy. Her eyes widened and watered. She had suddenly recognized this tiny, bald, sallow-skinned woman wearing a silk headscarf who had just punched No. 2 for the cancer floor. It was painful.

"No," she said, sharply drawing in a breath. "No. No. No."

I had faced similar reactions since my breast cancer diagnosis. People steadied themselves against the nearest stationary object, stammered, cried. I comforted.

"It's OK," I told them —although it wasn't.

Even before I knew my cancer's full pathology, I didn't feel like I'd be OK.  I had an itchy fear spreading like a rash in places inside me that I couldn't scratch. It kept me up at night, distracted me at work, destroyed me when I said goodnight to my kids. It was always there, under the surface.

I talked about it often in counseling sessions at the cancer center, which I'd begun after my first chemo treatment. I desperately wanted to have a positive outlook, but couldn't shake the creeping worry that cancer was the end for me. Can a person really change the way they feel?

My counselor, Patti, said yes. But it would take work. She asked me to listen carefully to what I was telling myself about my cancer and jot each statement on an index card.

Back home, it took me 30 seconds to write on four cards: The treatment won't work. The cancer will spread. I'm going to end up like my father (he died of prostate cancer four weeks before my diagnosis). I won't see my son graduate high school.

At my next session, I read the cards to Patti and was embarrassed by my doom and gloom. We discussed ways to refute my assertions and create a new narrative.

Here's what I came up with: Treatment for my kind of breast cancer has been proven successful. My cancer was removed during surgery and any traces remaining will be decimated by chemo and radiation. My father's metastatic cancer was a completely different animal. I will live the life I want for myself.

"Write each new message on the back of the corresponding index card," Patti instructed. "Read them often and repeat them to yourself like a mantra when you're scared."

I dutifully scribed. The mantra was not as easy to muster, because I was scared much of the time. Yet every once in a while I'd catch myself with the old thought and purposefully replace it with a new one. At first it felt like pretending, but soon the mantra became more natural — though reciting it still took exertion.

Then, in the elevator it came to me without effort when my acquaintance was clasping her head trying to wrap it around the realization that I have cancer.

"No. No. No," she'd said.

"It's OK," I said, reaching for her arm. "I'm in treatment now and I'm going to be fine." For the first time, I really believed it.

Have you had success cultivating a positive attitude when all you feel is dread? Please share your technique in the ‘Comments' section.