Surviving Breast Cancer
The author and her family
By Stephanie McLeod-Estevez
The summer I turned 40, I had a dream that I had breast cancer. When I woke up, I discovered a lump. It was large and solid. I knew I needed to take it seriously because my mom and my aunt had been diagnosed at 43.
The day that my youngest started kindergarten, I saw my PCP. Fortunately, because of my family’s cancer history, the lump was taken seriously and the following day I had a mammogram. It was a mammogram, that turned into an ultrasound, that turned into a biopsy. Five hours later, I returned home with an icepack tucked underneath my arm, praying that I was going to be ok.
During those long months of chemo, my husband and I created several breast casts from plaster of paris. I didn’t know exactly what I would do with them, but I knew it was important to follow my creative instinct and wisdom.
There’s this moment of deafening silence when you're told. . . you have cancer. The shock and disbelief threaten to throw you into a panic, yet you don’t have the luxury of falling apart. The time to act is now. Your life's on the line and you’re jumping off of the cliff, hoping that you land on solid ground.
My cancer was very aggressive, and there were concerns that it had metastasized. Having lost my mom to metastatic breast cancer when I was 26, this was my worst fear. Thankfully it hadn’t, which provided some relief as I moved forward. Perhaps I could be cured.
This kicked off a nine month process of intense treatment, starting with 5 months of chemo, followed by a bilateral mastectomy, and 5 weeks of radiation. The genetic testing revealed that my BRCA2 gene was mutated, so having my ovaries removed was added to the plan. At 41, I went immediately into permanent menopause.
I went from rarely seeing the doctor to feeling like I had a new full time job of being a cancer patient. All of the sudden, my world was filled with bottles of medicine and supplements to treat the side effects. My body felt like it was public property with the amount of poking, prodding, and attention it received. Being bald meant that personal privacy was pretty much out of the question. I accepted it because I didn’t want to die young.
As hard as it was, I knew I was lucky that my mom’s example helped me figure out how to handle treatment. Having been one of her caregivers, I had insight into what my loved ones needed. This made me feel closer to her again, which was something I cherished. The loving kindness of family and friends helped us through the darkest times. We did what we could to still find things to make us laugh.
The post-mastectomy analysis of my tumor showed a complete pathological response to the chemo. In other words, the tumor had been killed. I moved into a category every cancer patient dreams of, NED, No Evidence of Disease. While I live with the uncertainty that the cancer could return, I knew I’d gotten the best results that I could have asked for.
When you’re going through treatment, you’re in full blown survival mode. You’re navigating constant health challenges, health monitoring, and unexpected situations while simultaneously trying to cling to some sense of normalcy. I went from being a Zumba and yoga fanatic, to holding tight to the grocery cart so that I could make it through my weekly shopping. It was a dramatic change that made it difficult to recognize myself.
Cancer is so much more than a medical problem. It affects every aspect of your life - your body, mind, spirit, and identity. At some point in the process, it becomes clear that you’ve been through something traumatic. The uncertainty you thought would go away becomes indefinite, which makes it easy to feel like you’re falling apart. While your treatment team is sensitive to these challenges, their expertise is in treating the cancer, not the psychological impact of it. This leaves you feeling quite vulnerable and alone.
Once again, I felt grateful that I had an advantage that most women don’t. I’m a psychotherapist who specializes in grief and trauma. When my mom died, I decided to become an art therapist. During my master’s program, I discovered how to use art therapy to heal emotionally from the loss of my mom and the trauma of watching her die. This saved me from the crippling sorrow that I’d been experiencing.
After my cancer diagnosis, I leaned on my expertise as an art therapist to support myself through the process. During those long months of chemo, my husband and I created several breast casts from plaster of paris. I didn’t know exactly what I would do with them, but I knew it was important to follow my creative instinct and wisdom. When treatment ended, I felt completely overwhelmed by trying to reckon with what had just happened to me and my family. I knew that if I wanted to reclaim myself and live a happy life, I would need to process my experience.
I turned to my breast casts and painted my cancer story onto them. I started with the more tangible parts, being diagnosed, going through chemo, breast surgery and radiation. As my method and awareness evolved, I explored deeper psychological themes, like facing the 4 universal fears, body image, and survivor guilt. Each cast that I painted, each poem that I wrote, validated my experience and helped me to find meaning and integrate it into my identity. I moved through the trauma and towards myself, with the gift of leaving me more emotionally free than I had been prior to cancer. These powerful sessions became the foundation for the art therapy interventions that I now share with the cancer community.
I’ve written a book, Beautiful Boobs, which takes women step-by-step through the emotional healing process. This October, I’m launching a bi-monthly newsletter that will give readers access to excerpts from the book, tips on accessing your creativity, and prompts to get you started while I work on finding a publisher. You can sign up today by visiting the books website www.beautifulboobsthebook.com.