Affirmations

It started the day I checked in for my first chemotherapy infusion. Just past the reception area, I noticed a table on which sat a large basket filled with beanies and caps. After rifling through them and finding one I thought might fit my child-sized head, I saw a bowl filled with small, tightly folded papers. A handwritten note directed me to please take an affirmation. What a nice thing. I selected one and read it.

I’m in control of how I react to others.

Well, yes, that sentence is theoretically true. Yet I felt myself making a face beneath my N95 mask as I disputed that reactionary perfection is not always attainable when one is caught flat-footed in the face of an untoward remark or someone’s bad behavior. I didn’t think I liked that affirmation. I felt called out and annoyed. Disenchanted with the whole affirmation thing.  

A week later, I was dehydrated and went to the infusion center for IV fluids. On my way back to the treatment area, I took another paper out of the bowl and unfolded it.

I accept my emotions and let them serve their purpose.

Okay. That statement felt supportive and encouraging, more of a meet-you-where-you’re-at type of acknowledgment. No guilt, no reproach, just encouraging words to aid in one’s emotional regulation.

A few weeks later, I was back for more chemotherapy. The bowl beckoned. I asked myself if I really wanted to keep doing this. 

Coach me and I will learn. Challenge me and I will grown and I will win.

You read that correctly. My chemo fortune cookie was a sports-themed motivational slogan, complete with a misspelling that I mentally rewrote to read: “… I will groan and I will win.” I groaned at the person in charge of these affirmations. I groaned at myself for taking them.  

With each subsequent visit to the infusion center I should have told myself that I am in control of how I react to the bowl of affirmations and just kept my fingers out. Yet at each visit I found myself stirring them around and removing one, only to disparage what came across as tone deaf or an unfitting platitude in the setting of a cancer center.

Happiness often sneaks through a door you didn’t know you left open.

Success is not the key to my happiness; happiness is the key to my success.

I don’t see a lot of happiness in the waiting room. I see patience, I see resignation, I see grace, I see suffering.

I embrace life with courage, excitement, and hope.

I’ll give you courage and hope. I don’t believe that most people undergoing cancer treatment are chock-full of excitement. I know I’m not. Recently, increasing levels of fatigue and muscle soreness have pilfered much of my energy. My walks are shorter and slower, with rest breaks required on the hills near my home. Prior to being anemic, I would have described the slopes as gentle and gradual, but now they’re massive. Practically vertical. 

Last Monday, I met with Dr. Beckwith and she outlined the next 14 or so months of my life. I have two chemo/immune therapy infusions to go, November 4 and November 11. Another MRI is scheduled for November 13. If there is no residual tumor remaining, I will be scheduled for surgery, likely right before Christmas. If tumor is still seen on imaging, I will have more infusions before recovering my strength and proceeding to surgery. Dr. Beckwith palpated a small, soft half-centimeter area she believed was tumor. A month ago, the external measurement of the tumor mass was 4 x 3.5 cm. I guess that puts to rest any wondering if the THP therapy would effectively kill my cancer.

Dr. Beckwith also clarified that the year of targeted immune therapy meant 12 full months of monoclonal antibody infusions Herceptin and Perjeta, with credit given for the infusions I’ve already received. Counting the next two weeks of infusions, I will still require 40 more weeks of targeted immune therapy (given every three weeks) on the other side of surgery, radiation therapy, and recovery from both. Upon doing the math, I calculated I should be finished between Thanksgiving and Christmas of 2025. That hit hard, as I had wrongly assumed the year she had mentioned would be from the time my cancer was diagnosed and treatment begun.

Good news came from the genetic counselor, Lauren. Results from the entire breast cancer panel showed no genetic mutations. With my consent, Lauren had also run a few additional panels to look for mutations that could increase my risk for gynecologic cancers, colon cancer, and melanoma. Those tests were all normal except for two variants of uncertain significance noted on the MC1R gene, the gene that regulates pigment and is responsible for me having been born a redhead. She told me that, at present, there is no data on whether these two mutations might be responsible for the two melanomas I’ve had in the recent past.

Today is a new opportunity to make a positive impact.

That’s a good one, isn’t it? An affirmative affirmation. With each day, we each have new opportunities to make a situation or the world transform into something a little bit better for one another. That resonates with me, and I’ll keep the faith and keep on going. I should probably stop taking those doggone affirmations out of the bowl, but no promises there.