Faith, Hope and Cancer: The Journey of a Childhood Cancer Survivor

By Carolyn Koncal Breinich

Childhood cancer showed me God’s role in my life and how important faith and hope truly are. I am looking for an agent for my inspirational biography Faith, Hope and Cancer: A Childhood Cancer Survivor’s Journey. This is my story of surviving cancer treatment, struggling with my diagnosis during already sensitive teenage yea

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Koncal Breinich
• Release date: May 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734780420

Book preview

Preface

I consider January 25, the day I was diagnosed with cancer, as my second birthday and my day to celebrate life and thank God for what He has given me. Some choose to celebrate the day they went into remission, and some don’t celebrate at all. I celebrate my diagnosis day because if that day had never happened, I wouldn’t be here sharing my story. I wrote my first cancerversary email in 2001, to celebrate my seventh year of being a childhood cancer survivor. I was about to turn twenty-one and I felt the need to go out into the world and share my good news. I wanted to celebrate life, God’s plan for me, the mysterious ways in which He works, and most importantly remind others to celebrate their lives. Email and the internet were becoming more popular, and I had a way to share my good news with a wide range of people who had been with me throughout my journey. Every year since then, I have continued to write a cancerversary email on that day.

Over the years, the list of people who receive my email has grown, and many have encouraged me to write a book. I have always known sharing my story could provide hope or inspire others, but I never considered myself a writer. Until now. I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. This book is no exception.

In 2016, my husband gave me the greatest gift: the gift to quit my job and follow my dream. For the first two weeks after I quit my job, the words just flowed. In a short period of time, I had the first rough draft of this book written. Then it came to a screeching halt. I hadn’t prepared myself for the emotions that came along with the memories. For a year, I wanted to work on the book but was too afraid to face the emotions again. Then I heard a former classmate had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I had to reach out to her. I knew the words in my book could offer her hope. Her diagnosis gave me the courage to open my book and start rereading some of the chapters. I was pleasantly surprised that even though the memories were there, the accompanying emotion had decreased. I was not only able to help her and her family, but I was able to move forward and finish writing my story.

My journey wasn’t an easy one. I survived before the internet connected people and before organizations existed to help survivors. I want to show you how having faith in something greater and hope for a better future changed my life, and how it can and will get you through the hard times.

Life will always have its ups and downs, but it is how we respond to the highs and lows that shapes us into who we are. Those who read this book will laugh, cry, and be inspired. You will gain a perspective on what a child (or anyone) diagnosed with cancer goes through. You will see how hope and faith are important keys to survival. Even though my journey wasn’t always easy, I would do it all over again, knowing I am here now, sharing it with you.

1

Miracles Do Happen

Everyone has a defining moment in their life, a moment that changed the course of their life. I was thirteen when I first experienced that feeling and my life changed. Up until then, I lived what I considered a normal life. I grew up in the suburbs, the youngest of three, without a care in the world. I dreamt of becoming a veterinarian, getting married, having two children and many dogs. I was happy living the life my parents provided me. Nothing prepared me for the path my life was about to take.

November 1993. I was in the eighth grade at basketball practice. That night, I was kneed in the back while guarding a teammate. I immediately felt a sharp pain in my lower back and asked my coach if I could get some water and sit down. I walked to the drinking fountain and then sat on the bleachers waiting for practice to be over. When my mom picked me up, I told her what happened and about the pain. My parents assumed I had just pulled a muscle. I ended up staying home from school the next day because the pain was still there. I just couldn’t get comfortable.

A week later, my parents took me to see our family doctor to determine if there was internal damage since I was not getting better and continued to feel a sharp pain in my back. He took x-rays, but nothing showed up, so rest, heat, and aspirin were recommended.

For the next month, I dealt with the pain the best way I could. I didn’t swallow pills, so my parents crushed over-the-counter pain medication and I mixed it with a spoonful of sugar. (Mary Poppins was wrong: a spoonful of sugar does not make the medicine go down.) Crushed medicine tastes horrible, but because it was the same color as sugar, I only took a quarter of the crushed medication with the sugar. I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing. I didn’t want my parents to worry, so I pretended to feel better. I thought the pain was temporary and I could just live with it. Boy, was I wrong.

In December, I began sleeping in a recliner in our family room because I couldn’t lie down. It hurt too much to lie flat on a bed. When I was home, I lived in that chair. It was the only place I had some comfort, although the pain was still present. One night I felt better and decided to try sleeping in my bed. Big mistake. The pain escalated and I couldn’t sit up and get out of bed. Instead, I slowly rolled and then used the edge of the bed to stand. I knew something was wrong. I knew this wasn’t normal, and I also knew no one could tell me why I was in so much pain.

After playing in one scrimmage basketball game, I realized I had to quit the team. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to play—the pain was too severe. I had been playing basketball since the fourth grade; I didn’t want to give it up. I didn’t want the pain to win, but it did. I sat on my parents’ bed, picked up the phone and called the coach. As we talked, I think he understood why I felt the need to quit, but I knew my teammates wouldn’t.

Basketball was the first thing I had to give up. A couple weeks later, as I was helping my mom set up for Secret Santa (The Christmas activity she organized for kids to shop for their family during school), the pain in my back hurt so bad I was in tears and just wanted to go home. Since my mom was in charge, she couldn’t leave to take me home, so I was stuck at school in unbearable pain and couldn’t do anything about it. Good thing God had other plans. Mr. Tonti, one of our neighbors and a coach at the school, happened to come down to the gym where we were setting up. I believe God sent him there so he could take me home. He was there so I didn’t have to sit in pain waiting for my mom to finish. I was heartbroken leaving and not being able to help with Secret Santa. It was a Christmas tradition and something I had been a part of since I was four years old. I didn’t feel I had a choice; the pain was now controlling my life.

I continued going to school despite the constant pain. My school made accommodations for me, such as letting my books remain in the classroom, eliminating the need for me to carry them from class to class. At the time, my class had to carry all our books with us as we were not allowed to go to our lockers during the day. My mom had weighed my bookbag, and it weighed forty pounds. It was then I was given an extra set of books to keep at home, so I didn’t need to carry anything home.

This was the beginning of feeling set apart from my classmates. They didn’t understand why I received special treatment. They didn’t understand how severe my back pain was. All they knew was what I told them: I had a sharp, stabbing pain that moved to different parts of my back. One minute it would be in my upper back, the next minute in my lower back or in the middle. Then, I overheard a friend say, Real pain doesn’t move. It was at that moment I realized they thought I was faking. I couldn’t understand why they thought this, and unfortunately, I had no way to prove the pain was real.

Even my siblings didn’t believe the pain was real, or at least they didn’t believe the pain was as intense as I claimed. Being the youngest, my sister and brother viewed me as the baby of the family, the one who would cry to get what I wanted. Over the course of the month, my brother, Steven, went on with his life. He was a junior in high school and had other things to worry about than his younger sister getting kneed in the back at basketball practice and having back pain. Theresa was a freshman in college, lived two hours away and had no idea what I was experiencing. She came home from college to see me sleeping in a chair. I can only assume she thought my parents were babying me once again.

One day when the three of us were upstairs, they pushed me into the wall to see if the pain was real. I fell backwards hitting my back on the doorknob of the clothes chute. I cried because of the pain it caused, but more importantly, I cried because I had no way to prove to anyone what I was going through. I just wanted people to believe me.

I tried to act normal because I wanted to feel normal. I wanted to feel included. What my family and friends didn’t know was that I was hiding how bad it actually hurt. It hurt to laugh, sneeze, move quickly, sit on the bus, sit in the car, and sleep in a bed. Everything I did caused me pain; pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I never knew where the pain would be, and I never knew how intense it was going to be. The pain could go from a deep, aching pain to a sharp, stabbing pain at any minute. I took one day at a time and did the best I could.

I had countless x-rays, none of which showed anything wrong. Some suspected I had inherited a bad back, since my dad and other relatives had bad backs. My parents just figured it was an undetected slipped disk or growing pains. I knew what I was going through wasn’t growing pains.

Come Christmas, all I wanted was a day without pain. Our family tradition was to wake up Christmas morning, open presents, eat cookies, and drive two hours to see our grandparents. I loved Christmas. It was and continues to be my favorite time of the year, but I was not looking forward to this particular Christmas. It hurt to be in a car for just ten minutes, let alone two hours. The seats were uncomfortable and each time the car went over a bump, I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my back. The only thing I prayed for was a day without pain. I didn’t care what Santa brought me; I was just tired of hurting.

Christmas morning I got my first miracle: I woke up without pain. For the first time in two months, I could move freely. I could sit on the ground. I could twist and turn. I thanked God for the greatest gift I could have been given. I opened my presents with my family, ate cookies, and survived the two-hour drive to see my grandparents without pain. Christmas morning, I learned miracles do happen.

2

The C Word

Sadly, the pain didn’t stay away for long. On New Year’s Eve I was at my best friend Sam’s house celebrating. We spent the day together, and I did my best to have a good time even though I was miserable. The intensity of the pain started to become more consistent. I wondered why my pain had returned, if I would ever know the cause, and if something was seriously wrong with me. I was afraid the sharp, stabbing pain was here to stay. I did my best to hide how I felt. I did my best to cope. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to have fun with my best friend. I sat there shifting my weight while we played games, watched TV, and took pictures of each other. No matter what I did, I couldn’t find a comfortable position.

Just before midnight, the pain got so unbearable I called my parents to come get me because I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep on the floor at Sam’s house. I’m sure he was mad at me for leaving, but I just couldn’t stay. I felt horrible for letting him down. As much as I did not want it to, the pain ruled my life. Looking at the picture he took of me that day, so pale and thin, I wondered how no one realized I was sick.

For the next couple of weeks, the pain continued to control my life, people continued to have their doubts, and I just lived with it. Then on January 12, everything changed again. At the end of math class, I reached under my desk to get something out of my book bag and couldn’t get up again. I was stuck hunched over. I tried sitting up, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t straighten my back. It was the most intense and excruciating pain I had felt. It felt as if someone had stuck a screwdriver in my spine, preventing me from straightening it. I was terrified. I looked to my friends for help, but I didn’t see looks of sympathy or empathy on their faces; instead I saw laughter. I couldn’t understand why they thought it was so funny. They all left for lunch, leaving me alone with the teacher.

The school nurse and my mom, who was the music teacher at my school, were called to the classroom. My mom called Theresa, who was home from college, to come pick me up. By the time she got to school, the pain had subsided enough, and I was able to sit up and walk out to the car. I know my friends saw me walking, which I thought confirmed their belief that I was faking, but for me, not being able to sit up was the scariest moment of my life, and my friends had done nothing to help. I became even more alienated from them.

The following day, another set of x-rays showed nothing wrong. Since this doctor couldn’t tell us what was causing my pain and more specifically, what prevented me from straightening my