Jill Dupont

Ihave breast cancer – and it will kill me. How do I know this? Because I am one of the relatively few people who was initially diagnosed, nearly three-and-a-half years ago, with Stage IV – otherwise known as advanced, late stage, metastatic, or terminal – cancer. It can be treated (to prolong life), but not cured. My story and those of others like me are not the stuff of October’s Breast Cancer Awareness month, which is all about “surviving,” “winning the fight,” and “beating” cancer. When I die, does it mean that I have lost? That I did not try? That I failed? That I did something wrong? How do I live my life well in a culture that celebrates overcoming and affixing a pink ribbon to the victory?

Since my diagnosis, my quality of life has been pretty good. I’m both grateful and lucky to still be alive. But, it is not easy. Though I have gone through a number of different treatments, none of them have caused me to lose my hair (yet). Because of this, people feeling – that carrying knowledge of my disease and prognosis (death) every day is draining. My insides – alternately angry, fearful, despairing, sad, grateful, and accepting – don’t always match how I look, and I imagine, because I have lived this long, that some are beginning to wonder if I am really sick. Indeed, many comments from well-intentioned friends, family, and colleagues often minimize what I and others like me are feeling and experiencing, or suggest that I am somehow to blame for my illness. “Well, we’re all going to die,” they say, or “We all try to live in the moment or for the day.” Yes, I nod. But there is something different about knowing that you are carrying with you, every day, that which will kill you, and that there is no way out of this body that has betrayed you. Most people have an abstract understanding of death, but an incurable illness makes death concrete. I tried to explain this to a family member who bent my ear about their own fears of getting cancer, dying, of needing to draw up a will, of not knowing who would care for their cat. I was furious at the insensitivity. “I live this every day,” I said, “but I have taken care of those things, and you can, too.” And living each day as though it is your last is not sustainable; sometimes, just living the day with the disease – whatever that looks like – is good enough. And yes, I got routine mammograms, tried to eat well and exercise, never smoked and rarely drank, but I got cancer. By the time I found the lump between scheduled mammograms, the cancer had already traveled to nearly 15 spots in my skeleton, from my hip to my clavicle and everywhere in between. I sometimes wonder if people need to find a “reason” for why others get cancer as a defense against the possibility that it might happen to them as randomly as it did to me, and others like me – some of whom are in their 20s and 30s and will not live to see their children graduate, get married, and have their own children. Sometimes, bad things and bad luck happen for no good reason – not because we deserve it, or are horrible people, or did the wrong things along the way. As my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend glibly remarked when I was diagnosed, I had “hit the reverse lottery.” Perhaps that’s the best explanation of all. We are a future-oriented people. Though many people speak of living in the moment, it’s very hard to do and most people don’t. There is always tomorrow, next month, next summer, or retirement. We may know that death is a possibility, but it doesn’t shadow one’s daily thinking. I live in weekly increments, with and between appointments, blood draws, treatments, body scans, and biopsies. There are days that I feel like my old self and I am able to work, clean my house, and mow my lawn – days that I am hopeful. Other days, the fatigue is so great that I can’t get out of bed. These days make me more realistic and sharpen my awareness that I no longer inhabit the same world as my healthy acquaintances. Still, I am able to take comfort in the light streaming through my house, the wind caressing the trees, the sound of thunder, a good book, and the warmth of my cats beside me. There is beauty in these “simple” things.

I don’t want to die, But, I’ve lived a relatively long life, a good enough life, and a privileged life. I have good health insurance, an accommodating workplace, and wonderful doctors, nurses, and other healthcare professionals to support me. Not all are so lucky, whether they are ill or not. So, as pink is added to our splash of fall colors, remember that October is not just about saving the “melons,” or the “boobies,” or what they actually are: breasts. It is about saving lives. Instead of buying pink merchandise, consider donating to Metavivor, the only organization that funnels all funds toward seeking a cure, and Circle of Hope, a local organization that assists Stage IV breast cancer patients with bills, food, and other forms of support. I never thought this would happen to me. I hope it never happens to you.

Thirty Years, Not Five! 1

989, just before Christmas, my second mammogram indicated a fast-growing, estrogen responsive, growth less than one centimeter in size. If I had not cancelled and rescheduled that mammogram twice, I wonder if I would be writing my story today. The tiny twisted mass would not have shown up on those earlier dates. A new procedure, “lumpectomy” was possible – a choice for some women in the early stages. Studies to determine the best treatment combinations had been recently launched. I opted for both, and was randomized to three chemo drugs, radiation, and estrogenblockintamoxifen and given a prediction of five years to live. Within 18 months, the data showed that my protocol was working for women with the same diagnosis as mine. Twenty years later, the cancer returned, and in both breasts. This time I chose a double mastectomy so I wouldn’t have to endure chemotherapy and radiation. I have always cooked from scratch, avoiding processed foods. Now I am an avid reader of labels: no soy lecthicin which is a form of estrogen, and, surprisingly, no sweet potatoes or yams. Mostly vegan, or plantbased, diet; and regular attendance at the gym, have been my “treatment.” And yes, my formerly straight hair has waves in it. This year, coming up on 30 years, tests showed nothing to be concerned about. But I marvel at the fact that I am still here, waking up each morning, grateful for the advances in cancer care that have given me time to see my grandchildren grow up and to share life with my husband of 59 years.