SISTERLY SUPPORT

What do you do when you're knee deep in do-do and about to go through something as awful and terrifying as surgery? You Google It, natch. And after you've researched said awful, terrifying something, if you are like me, you then go about finding others who are going through the very same do-do as you. (Because sharing do-do is much better than dealing with do-do alone.)

That's how I stumble upon a vast network of women who are going through breast cancer just like me. Tens of thousands of women. And I find them just 12 days after I am diagnosed. How lucky am I? This online community of sistahs keeps me laughing, sane, supported and in check. They are my lifeline on an otherwise do-do filled journey.

One of the things I love most are the insightful moments that come out of our online discussion threads. Everyone has their own unique perspective as they wade through the all-too-familiar mire known as cancer. Sometimes people's perspectives match mine dead-on (pun intended); other times we differ dramatically. One day during a rather frank discussion about death and dying, a woman shared something quite profound. A close friend of hers had recently passed away (and not from cancer, BTW). The deceased friend came to this woman in a dream and said, "Just because you have cancer doesn't mean you are going to die — just like not having cancer means you are going to live."

Whew. That statement, spoken to a woman in a dream by a woman who is dead, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Here I am fretting (albeit understandably, gotta cut myself some slack here) about the possibility of dying. But what's changed? I'm the same person I was 6 months ago. (My breast cancer was in me then too; my surgeon says it's probably been growing for 10 years). Yet now the word "cancer" and my name are forever tethered together.

I think cancer brings me closer to death. Or does it? Aren't we all just a hop, skip and a jump away from biting the big one? Some of us are fortunate (and I use the term most loosely) to get a glimpse of our potentially shortened lives. It's one of the many, ahem, "opportunities" that cancer conjures up. (Cancer provides plenty of other "opportunities" too, but I haven't the time to delve into that do-do right now.)

But this I know is true: We all die. And we all spend our lives trying not to think about it.

Your not having cancer doesn't mean you are going to live any more than my having cancer means I am going to die.

Think about it.

FINDING SUPPORT

On December 20th, 2010, I sit down at the computer and begin my real journey: The one where I take off my goggles, put on my glasses and start Googling. (This is otherwise known as the "information-hunting-and-gathering" phase of life after a breast cancer diagnosis.)

The process of medical fact finding forever alters — in fact, downright bursts — the protective bubble we build around ourselves upon initially hearing the C word in the same sentence as our own name. But let me warn you: You better be ready. Because once you open the door to that world of info, the winds of change WILL come rushing in. And after that happens, the hands of time can never be turned back.

My fact-finding mission on this day shortly before the Christmas holidays uncovers a support group that I never knew existed. A community comprised of women of all ages and stages that congregates online to share their battles with breast cancer. It's a safe haven of sorts, a place where we can dump the most gruesome details of our cancer battle and find not only relief, but others who have been there, done that. It's a 24/7 sanctuary free from judgement, full of support and rampant with humor. Mothers representing daughters fighting the disease can be found here, as can daughters gathering strength for their moms. Even husbands have been known to join forces on behalf of their wives. Everyone is welcomed; you just need an introduction to The Big C.

There is safety in numbers, and that certainly is the case with the women fighting alongside me — they number in the tens of thousands on this group alone. We stand together, tall in our struggles, our hopes, our fears. We are united in our desire for a long life, a cancer-free future, and unlimited fun time with family and friends.

And I don't know how I could have gotten through it all without them. (See Ditching Control  and Curtain of Dead for more of my story.)