To Live Each Moment

By Janet Britton

Janet Britton had just turned thirty-three when she found out she had cancer. Her children needed her. So did her husband. She didn’t have time for surgery, radiation treatment or chemotherapy.

But the lump was malignant, and, without her permission, Janet was hurled into a world of dazzling operating rooms, icy bedpans and endless tubes and needles. With her we experience the terror of the unknown, the exhaustion of living in a rebellious body, the frustration of dealing with insensitive friends and health-care professionals and the relief of finding others who truly understand.

Intending her story to be a gift of words for her young children, Janet describes the emotions and events of her treatment with both laughter and tears. Because cancer strikes three out four American families, few escape its effects. Cancer changes everything. It destroys some, but it can also nudge some to begin to live each moment with joy and purpose.

As Janet battles a potential death sentence, she seeks strength through God and discovers what it truly means to be alive. While others support her in her fight, Janet continues to support her own loved ones, struggling with addiction, abuse and the impact of suicide.

Now, thirty years later, after a second bout of cancer, Janet reissues her book for the wife of her granddaughter’s basketball coach, just diagnosed with breast cancer at age thirty-three. Janet encourages this young mother by pointing out the improvements of treatment in the last three decades. Janet knows that though medical protocol has changed, emotions of those dealing with cancer remain the same.

At the end of this edition, Janet updates readers on the original characters in her memoir in a new postscript titled, “Still Living Each Moment.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Britton
• Release date: Sep 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781941733066

Janet Britton

Janet Britton is a former high-school English teacher and free-lance writer living on a farm in northeastern Ohio. She and her husband have two children, Renae and Neil, and two foster daughters, one deceased.Janet Britton believed she was writing To Live Each Moment for her son and daughter to read as adults, long after she’d died. Neil and Renae were just seven and nine when she found that lump on her breast. She wrote the story for their Christmas presents, two piles of Xeroxed double-spaced paper that told the events and emotions of their mom’s treatment year.Writing has been a part of Janet’s life since fifth grade when she wrote her first novel, The Black Horse Midnight. During her cancer therapy in 1980-82, she completed her masters in English and pioneered a writing program.Three decades have passed. Neil and Renae have married happily. She and her husband have five grandchildren and have celebrated their 47th wedding anniversary. Writing remains her outlet. Janet is working on the second of a novel series she refers to as Inside Cinderella’s Castle, an honest look at relationships.

Book preview

To Live Each Moment:

One Woman’s Struggle Against Cancer

By Janet Britton

Copyright © 2014 by Janet Britton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including photo copying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher or the author.

ISBN: 978-1-941733-06-6

Published by EA Books, Inc.

www.EABooksOnline.com

To Live Each Moment:

One Woman's Struggle Against Cancer

Janet Britton

Copyright © 2014 by Janet Britton

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-1-941733-06-6

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

March 2014

Christmas 1982, Let Me Explain....

August 1980, The Destroyer Returns

Hospitalized

Another Surgery

Home Again

Rays of Hope

Chemical Warfare

1981, Life Goes On

Postscript

Epilogue - Still Living Each Moment in 2014

About the Author

DEDICATION:

TO COACH’S KIDS

FROM JANET’S KIDS,

THE ORIGINAL RECIPIENTS OF RENAE AND NEIL’S AFGHAN:

May our family’s story encourage your family through the decades.

May your family’s story encourage your friends.

PASSED ON BY THE BRITTON/LIPINSKY FAMILY

TO THE COMPAN FAMILY

TO PASS ON TO . . .

OR MAYBE—

Maybe the Compan family will be the end of the chain.

Maybe they will be part of the last generation of families impacted by breast cancer.

Maybe McCamey’s children will have no more need to know about breast cancer than they will need to know about the Morse code or 8-track players.

Maybe . . . .

Click here to go to Janet Britton Author Facebook page to view a photo album of some people in this book.

March, 2014

Sweet Emily,

You probably have never seen Taylor cry. No doubt that’s one reason you chose our eighteen-year-old granddaughter to babysit your little ones over the years. She despises drama.

I’m usually stoic myself. Usually. But not at the last tournament basketball game when a young friend plopped down by me, sobbing. No, no! Not Emily.

I patted and waited, finally asked, Emily who, dear? What’s wrong?

She gasped. Coach’s wife. . . . Coach’s wife. . . . She blew her nose. Coach’s wife has breast cancer.

My stoic gene disintegrated. I almost screamed, Not Emily Compan! She’s too young. She has four babies.

I clenched my fist firmly against my lips or I would have moaned your babies’ names aloud. McCamey, Rylan, Tucker, Cooper. The four little ones our granddaughter grabs up from the bleachers after basketball games.

Coach’s wife . . . . Coach’s wife . . . , concerned fans whispered around me.

I raged. I wanted to throw something. Mothers today should not have to fear mutant cells murdering them before their babies grow to adulthood. By now breast cancer should have gone the way of smallpox and polio.

I wanted to grab up your babies like Taylor does. I wanted to run away with them to someplace safe, a place where there are no fears-to-come for their mommy. Nightmares of my own diagnosis battered my memory. Images of Taylor giggling on the gym floor with your children melded into other memories—Kris laughing with our Renae and Neil in the back yard while I tried to nap on the couch after chemo.

* * *

The fans roared. Taylor’s butt thumped on the hardwood floor. Charge! the ref signaled. Her sisters—one a college sophomore, the other a varsity cheerleader—yelled loudest. Way to hustle, Taylor. Way to shut ‘em down! Your husband grinned his approval from the bench.

I forced my focus back on the game. I clapped, then caught a glimpse of my hands. Veined and age-spotted, not smooth and young like in the summer of ’80. In my stillness, as I brushed away an unruly tear, I seemed to hear Our Heavenly Father’s whisper, Janet, child, I love Emily and Jeff and their children more than anyone else could ever love them, more than Taylor even. Believe that I will make good out of this bad situation.

I lowered my head onto my old hands and prayed. Peace nudged at my anger and fears.

I was thirty-three, too, Emily, when I had my mastectomy. (I still get goose bumps when I remember I was exactly your age when I heard what people viewed then as my death sentence.) And I’m still here, twice your age.

Doctors and nurses will warn you, Don’t compare yourself to others. Every cancer is different. But, Emily, make an exception to the No comparisons rule when you think of me.

Think of my labyrinth of wrinkles. Smile fondly at my ugly spider veins and the cellulite bulging in my jeans. Count the sprinkles of gray snuggled in my highlights. And believe.

You will get old, too, Emily. You will shop for bridal dresses with your now five-year-old daughter. Your palms will sweat the day your now four-year-old son drives home from his driver’s permit test. You will cheer on grandchildren, perhaps the sons of your adorable eighteen-month-old twins, at Little League games. You and your husband will travel to Europe and Asia and sky dive and . . . .

Those four beautiful babies are your arsenal, your shield from prying questions, your reason to fight through the next procedure.

Three decades ago I wrote To Live Each Moment, a memoir of my treatment year, for our two natural children, Renae and Neil. Today, Taylor, the second of our five grandchildren, took a signed copy to you as a gift.

As you read, Emily, you will see that conventional treatment for breast cancer is still the same—surgery, radiotherapy, chemotherapy/drugs, hormone-blocking therapies like Tamoxifen to prevent recurrence. But many experiences I wrote about aren’t typical today. Medicine has greatly improved since 1980.

I spent three weeks in the hospital after my mastectomy. You may not even spend the night.

The primitive hockey stick radiation that scarred my lung and heart was discontinued in 1981. Any radiation you may require will be finely calculated, like mine for my second cancer. I had no problem with fatigue after five weeks radiation in 2006, though I was twenty-six years older.

The same chemotherapy protocol that ravished my body for thirteen cycles/twelve full months is administered now for only three or four cycles, or none at all. Doctors have learned that more is not necessarily better.

And biopsy reports tell so much now. After reading hers, my former student and friend, Melissa, said her new identity is HER2+/ER+/PR+/BRCA2+.

Melissa’s HER2+ comes from the Oncotype DX test, a measure of twenty-one genes to determine if a tumor will respond to chemo. Melissa’s positive results showed she needed chemo, but millions of others are spared needless doses of rat poison that kill only normal healthy cells but remain powerless against cancer cells. I can’t wait to hear your Oncotype DX results, Emily. I hope they spare you further treatment.

Melissa’s ER+ and PR+ show her tumor was dependent on both estrogen and progesterone. Years ago my positive estrogen report led to the removal of both of my ovaries. Melissa will simply take anti-hormone drugs. Oophorectomies are mostly obsolete.

Melissa’s maternal grandmother died young from breast cancer so Melissa had genetic testing. Without those positive results, Melissa would probably have simply had the lump and a few lymph nodes removed. Stats show lumpectomy with radiation is as effective as mastectomy. But because of the BRCA2+, Melissa chose a preventative bi-lateral mastectomy.

In the past, reconstruction after mastectomy often resulted in rock hard breasts with askew nipples. Today the results are stupendous, not just for movie stars like Angelina Jolie, but also for thirty-year-old pharmacists like Melissa.

I thank God for medical advances, Emily. But more information means you and Jeff have to make many more difficult decisions. So I pray for your wisdom and strength and wise counsel and peace in knowing the two of you made the best decisions you could based on the knowledge you had at this time.

During a lifetime of curling up over volume after volume of literature, I’ve concluded that people’s emotions haven’t changed through the ages. So though cancer treatments are gentler now, Emily, we both know the shock of a breast cancer diagnosis remains a harsh one.

As you read of my reactions over three decades ago, you will recognize many of your own. Like me, you will think of old friends who have disappeared from your life since your diagnosis and of acquaintances who have popped out of the woodwork with varying motives. The names of your good and bad nurses and doctors will be different than mine, but their attitudes will be the same. Staff sensitivity should have improved by now, but, unfortunately, human beings still remain quirky. LOL!

Like me, you will find privacy impossible, especially as a young public woman in a small community. I became the master of the smile and, I’m fine. But whatever your coping techniques, never apologize for just reacting like you.

I wrote To Live Each Moment for my family and friends to understand my feelings. To me the diagnosis was freeing. For the first time in my life, I gave myself permission to be me. So I encourage you to celebrate Emily. You are precious and unique!

Though breast cancer is no longer a death sentence, I believe each of us who receives a cancer diagnosis still receives a life sentence, a blessed life-long responsibility to treasure each moment.

The AP poll ranked your husband’s girls’ basketball team #1 in the State of Ohio. As the undefeated season lengthened and stretched on, the community worried about losing the next tough game, but Jeff is such a wise coach. He dismissed speculations on future games and preached to his girls, You can’t handle tomorrow ’til you get through today. Every time I see our Taylor wearing her T-shirt with that team motto printed on the back, I think of you, Emily. I pray, Help Emily make it through today. Please give Emily strength to live this today with great joy.

You’re right to think that cancer will change everything. Cancer never leaves us the same. Some it destroys. Some it nudges to really begin to live. Be one of those people, Emily. Live each moment with joy and purpose!

Love always,

Janet

Christmas 1982

Let Me Explain . . .

Raggedy Anns, needlepoint wall hangings, quilts and afghans—your friends’ mothers create treasures for their children. I’ve never enjoyed working on projects of thread and yarn. So for you, my little ones, I’ve created a gift of words, the material I weave most comfortably.

Your dad and I have always tried to deal openly with words—even ones some people view shocking. We believe when important topics are avoided, facts and emotions get jumbled; misinformation and confusion result. That’s why we’ve discussed that word cancer with you both—the details of treatment, our reactions, our fears.

I’ve used words to explain my impressions of my illness; I think dealing with words is important. But I want you both to always try to see behind the words people use. Remember how I’m calm when I want to scream and how Daddy screams when he wants to cry. Sometimes the most important words are the ones not spoken. Listen to hear the anger behind the smile—the tears behind the laughter.

This gift of words is like the afghans that your friends’ mothers make. One strand of yarn doesn’t look like much. But when we step back and view the completed project, we can see the beauty of the pattern that results from the weaving of individual strands together. My afghan to you was knit from the strands of individual lives—those of our family; of members of the medical community, the church and my school; and of friends like Genny and Kris and Ron and God.

Don’t be confused when I say God touches me and talks to me. My ears don’t hear an audible sound. I don’t physically feel a touch. Think how it is when one of your friends wants you to do something wrong; you know exactly what I’d tell you to do even if I’m not beside you. You’ve heard my advice in similar situations. You know me—what I’m like and what I want for you. That’s the way I know God. He talks to me through the Bible verses I remember. What he said to people in the past is recorded in the Bible, and I know he’d say those same things to me if he were physically standing with me. I sense his presence in the same way you sense mine even when you can’t see me. His presence is one strand of this story’s pattern. The intermeshing of lives with God creates a special kind of beauty.

Just as the beauty of an afghan is enhanced by its practicality, so this book, written on one level to entertain, will be most valuable as it is useful to others. Everyone is touched by illness, their own, a relative’s or a friend’s. Faced with the crisis, we often panic, thinking, I can’t go through this. But of course we can and we do and we go on and forget the pain; we draw on the reserves that we’ve previously stored. Even though each person reacts uniquely, it helps to share others’ experiences. This book provides vicarious experience for those directly and indirectly involved with cancer. It’s meant to give information, comfort and insight.

Children take pride in showing off the needlework projects of their mothers. The value of the gift is greater when its beauty and warmth are shared and not hoarded away in a cedar chest. I am proud that you have chosen to share my gift to you with others. But never forget, Renae and Neil, that this is your book. No matter how many thousands of people share it, it will always belong to the two of you. Others will refer to the manuscript as To Live Each Moment, but our family will know that they’re referring to Renae’s and Neil’s Afghan.

Love forever,

Mom

August 1980

The Destroyer Returns

Fighting the anesthetic, I struggled to open my eyes and clear my head. Genny hovered over me, waiting for my return to consciousness. I guess I took advantage of my day to sleep, I sighed. What time is it?

Two o’clock, came the answer from the other side of the bed—my husband, Rex. He was supposed to be hauling logs. We had both agreed that there was no reason to take a day off from the lumber company where he drove truck. I could ride with my friend Genny, who was going to Greenville Hospital herself for preadmission tests. She could have her blood tests and x-rays while I had the small benign lump on my breast removed in outpatient surgery. Rex was supposed to be working.

Bewildered, I asked, What are you doing here?

Genny called me. Dr. Coulter wants to talk to us both. He patted my shoulder. How do you feel?

Sleepy.

So what’s new? Rex gently ruffled my hair.

Smiling, I rolled my eyes. You could hold the sarcasm at least until I get out of this place.

Twisting a blond curl onto his forehead was Rex’s only sign of nervousness as he settled himself on the edge of my bed. I’ll get you home in a flash. The nurse went to tell the doctor you’re awake. Shifting impatiently, he said, I don’t see why he couldn’t have just talked to you and Genny without me.

Genny gracefully changed the subject. I lay viewing the familiar scene of my husband animatedly chatting with a friend. Searching his sparkling blue eyes, I wondered that, in spite of the twenty-five-minute drive to the hospital and the wait for me to wake, Rex had apparently not considered the reason he had been called.

But what Rex refused to see was instantly clear to me. Genny’s sad eyes and my husband’s unexpected presence clearly foreshadowed the purpose of our meeting with the doctor. His original diagnosis of a benign tumor had been wrong.

* * *

I had found the lump one late afternoon in March. Munching on a chocolate-chip cookie as I lay across our bed reading a novel, I dropped a crumb onto my neck. I sat up to brush it away, but it slipped into my bra. As I trapped the tenacious crumb, I paused. On the left edge of my breastbone was a barely perceptible lump—or was it simply an imperfection of the rib cage? I slid my hand to the right edge of the breastbone. I felt. No, the right side didn’t seem to have that little hump. But the halves of our bodies are not perfectly symmetrical; my left foot is larger than my right. I wear a smaller ring on my left hand than on my right hand.

At that moment I wished I had followed the National Cancer Institute’s advice on breast self-examination. I knew that early diagnosis and treatment are one’s best chance for surviving cancer. Yet in spite of my knowledge, self-examination had remained one of those health habits that I never practiced—like exercising every day and avoiding junk foods.

And now, since I didn’t know the normal shape of my body, I wasn’t sure if I had a lump or not.

That evening as Rex and I undressed for bed, I mentioned the lump to him. Would you check to see if there is a bump here on my breast?

Is this a new come-on? He laughed, kissing the tip of my nose.

No, smarty, I’m serious. I want to know if you think this is a lump or not.

How am I supposed to know? He withdrew, suddenly distant. I’m no doctor. If you’re worried, go see one.

Really concerned, aren’t you? I snapped. Remember, cancer is a good possibility with my family background.

Now we’re going to have a pity party, I suppose. Rex set his jaw and turned off the light.

I was angry and hurt. But after thirteen years of marriage and six years of dating Rex before that, I certainly should have known to expect his typical reactions to stress. Incidents flashed through my mind—Rex pretending to sleep in the chair in the labor room because he couldn’t watch my discomfort—Rex hollering nervously at our son before stooping to cradle him and examine the depth of the gash on his forehead. I realized that Rex’s curt dismissal of my possible lump was the same brusque masking of all his fears. But why, just this once, couldn’t he have broken the pattern and alleviated my concern by discussing the lump?

You’re probably worried about nothing, as usual, he muttered as he turned away.

Attempting to view the situation objectively, I had to admit that Rex could be right. I was probably overreacting. Most of my friends had had lumps sometime in their lives, and, after the initial hysteria, all but one had found that the lump was simply a cyst or a benign tumor. I knew the statistics. Eight out of ten breast tumors are benign. I had little reason for alarm.

And I did tend to worry needlessly. For example, if Rex was several hours late from work and I’d had no word from him, I’d visualize him in a ditch under his overturned rig or in the middle of a five-vehicle pileup. Staring at the seemingly stationary hands of the clock, I’d agonize over rearing children as a single parent. I’d compute the possibility of keeping our farm with just my teaching salary, or I’d consider the advantages of moving to a small house in Greenville so that my mother could help with the children. Methodically, I prepared for widowhood until I heard Rex shifting down to back into our driveway with his tractor- trailer intact.

I reined in my wild imaginings as I remembered my tradition of panic. Rex was right. There was no reason to be afraid. But I would be prudent and get a doctor’s opinion. I’ve always believed that the most paralyzing grief results from wondering, What if I’d made her go to the doctor earlier? . . . What if I’d known that was a dangerous symptom? . . . What if . . . I had vowed never to subject my family to the possibility of such guilt. The next morning, following the advice of my friend Genny who is a registered nurse, I dialed Dr. Frank Coulter, a general surgeon.

* * *

April 22, the day of my appointment, I dashed from the high school, where I teach English, to Dr. Coulter’s packed waiting room. Initially every seat was occupied; several people stood shifting their weight impatiently. At last I found a chair and blocked out the noise around me to concentrate on grading papers. Eventually the nurse picked a chart from the counter and announced, Janet Britton. As I followed her, I felt almost foolish for being there. Since the day of the cookie crumb, I had increasingly questioned my concern over such a tiny bump.

Strip from the waist up, the nurse ordered as the examining room door slammed behind