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Doing Chemo During a Pandemic Sucks — But It’s Also Helped Me Become More Grateful Than Ever

Photo credit: Cavan Images - Getty Images
Photo credit: Cavan Images - Getty Images

From Good Housekeeping

In February, I was diagnosed with estrogen receptor-positive breast cancer, one of the most common types of breast cancer found in women today. By the time my scheduled outpatient surgery to remove two minuscule tumors — one on my right breast, the other on a lymph node — at Manhattan's Mount Sinai hospital on March 31 rolled around, New York City had been shut down for 11 days due to the novel coronavirus outbreak.

The biopsy results, delivered six days after the procedure via teleconference from my breast surgeon, revealed no cancer remained. I was told the post-surgery treatment would be five weeks of radiation to ensure a 93% chance of no cancer recurrence in 10 years. My partner Paul hugged me as I exulted, "No chemo!"

But in mid-April, my case was transferred to an oncologist who ordered a "MammaPrint," a genomic test that examines the activity of 70 genes from a breast cancer tissue sample to predict an early stage breast cancer's ability to metastasize to other parts of the body. Unfortunately, I scored high, which meant that before radiation I would need to undergo eight rounds of chemo to maintain my starry prognosis. Because the chemo would render me immunocompromised, I would have to isolate, except for bi-weekly COVID-19 tests followed by chemo treatments. And with a no-companion rule enforced by the hospital, I would have to endure the experience of being hooked up to an IV for hours on end alone.

Photo credit: Courtesy of Author
Photo credit: Courtesy of Author

The news felt surreal and terrifying. Perhaps as a byproduct of being a child of Holocaust survivors weaned on stories about Auschwitz, I’ve always been cynical, dark and a believer in the Jewish superstition of kina hora — expect a positive outcome and the evil eye will zap you. The rare occasions in my life where I had channeled Pollyanna just to wind up with my hopes and dreams crushed only deepened my determination to stay negative.

Still, I realized that in my vulnerable state, letting my mind wander down the corridors of unlikely worst case scenarios would be emotional kryptonite. The last thing I needed was to descend into a negative tailspin of fear and grief. Obviously, enduring chemotherapy during a pandemic wasn't on my bucket list in life — but I could also choose to see myself as fortunate to have the opportunity to endure chemotherapy during a pandemic. Of course, that's not to discount the fact that for months after the pandemic hit, cancer sufferers were denied surgery or treatment due to hospitals being flooded with COVID-19 patients. Indeed, a June 19th editorial by National Cancer Institute director Dr. Norman Sharpless projected almost 10,000 excess deaths in the next 10 years from breast and colorectal cancer due to the pandemic. But I decided I needed to focus on the positive, since studies that show breast cancer patients who choose gratitude over gloom experience psychological well-being and an easier adjustment to treatment.

As a psychotherapist in private practice, I’ve spent 13 years helping patients root out their demons, sit with the scary feelings they've spent a lifetime repressing, and ultimately — hopefully — take better emotional charge of their lives. I realized the message I relentlessly drum into their heads ("You can’t avoid stressors. The only thing you have any control over are your actions and reactions...") could work for me, too. After I accepted my fears and made an effort to look for moments of triumph instead of sliding into self-pity over the loneliness, anxiety and roller coaster side-effects that accompanied each chemo session, the gratitude that started to flood into me was soul-restorative.

I am thrilled to have recently completed my eight rounds, yet I also feel blessed by the experience that opened me up to so many valuable lessons. Here are just a few of the realizations and experiences that made doing chemo during COVID-19 not just bearable, but emotionally rewarding:

I discovered that my hair doesn't define my femininity.

Since the pandemic meant I couldn’t visit my long-time stylist, members of my Facebook breast cancer support group suggested that I shave my head and turn the experience into an empowering ritual. As one friend explained, "You are being born anew."

When my hair began to fall from my head like a waterfall, I told Paul, "It’s time." He buzzed the sparse brown tendrils stubbornly beached along my downy scalp as we listened to Aretha's "You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman." Through my teary-eyed vision I pronounced, "You are history, cancer cells." Once shorn, Paul and I danced to the Fifth Dimension's "Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In" while he whispered, "Your face looks even more beautiful now."

When I look into the mirror now, I don’t see the hair that's missing, but the delicacy of my face that my hair had always obscured. Oh, and I’m grateful for all the money saved on shampoo!

I found the joy in saying "I can't."

I've always been a Type A, happiest-pursuing-four-goals-at-a-time kind of person. Case in point: One day after my breast surgery, I had already packed my calendar full of work appointments. After my first few chemo treatments, I decided the side effects were manageable enough, and I fell back into keeping my usual packed routine.

But then my spark began to turn into a flickering lightbulb, coupled with bouts of hyperventilating, extreme fatigue and nausea. The only things I wanted were meds and my pillow. So I did the unprecedented: I canceled work. When I regained my strength, instead of throwing myself back into appointments with patients, I read. I listened to podcasts. I binge-watched. Being forced to say "I can’t" proved to be an opportunity instead of a deprivation.

My friendships deepened.

As my world shrank to a one-bedroom apartment and medical facilities, initially I pined for long, mimosa-fueled brunches with my friends. But soon my friends started checking in with me weekly, if not daily — and even UPS-ing thoughtful gifts like lap desks and chocolate-covered strawberries. Without my life being interrupted by this ordeal, I wouldn’t have realized that a full life doesn't need to involve restaurants and beach vacations, just my heart expanding to take in all the love I’m offered.

I found support in my amazing chemo team.

Initially nothing, not even surgery, frightened me as much as the prospect of chemo — especially the prospect of chemo without the comfort of a loved one at my side. But the kindness and sensitivity of Claire, Jillian and the rest of my masked twentysomething chemo crew was a balm as I spent hours at a stretch watching an IV drip toxins into my arm. I’d ask how the nurses were holding up through COVID-19, and what they did in their off-time. My team would clap as I’d tick off another completed session: Just three to go!

I treasure the memory of my recently completed final session: I brought in Tate’s chocolate chip cookies and we danced as I "rang the bell" — a graduation ceremony marking the end of a patient's course of chemo.

I appreciate my health more than ever.

Almost worse than the chemo was knowing that two days later I'd experience varying degrees of nausea, extreme fatigue, shortness of breath and occasional dizziness. The drugs my team provided to deal with the nausea were typically quite effective. However, my intermittent lack of energy or desire to do anything other than be unconscious was not just debilitating but dispiriting. My "remedy"? Constantly reminding myself: "This crap will end." As the discomfort receded, I reveled in the delicious moments of joy, relief and peace. Feeling fine physically is no longer something I take for granted, but look at as a gift.

I know that at the end of this rough road, I'll be okay.

Back in April I joined online groups run by Gilda’s Club and Share, quickly hearing dozens of stories from those battling recurrent and/or metastatic cancer. Similar travails were related by IRL and Facebook friends. Then there’s my twentysomething patient who went from being a marathon runner to a COVID-19 "long hauler" beset with lung scarring and heart damage — a tragedy that I pray she recovers from.

I often tell my patients not to play "the comparison game" because from a distance, other people's lives often can look so much better than your own. But now, when I compare my long-term prognosis of no cancer recurrence in 10 years with the challenges others are facing, I feel like I've won the health lottery — and I can truly appreciate all I have to be grateful for, instead of focusing on the negative.

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