One year ago today I found the lump.

I have been sort of obsessively looking back at the calendar and recording dates. It was Saturday, July 9th last year.

It was a hot day and I had been out working on some landscaping. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for using the 4-wheeler's wench to pull some dead bushes up. We had inherited lots of very dead knockout roses (a.k.a "stupid knockout roses"). I dug around the roots to loosen them, then let out the wench, put the cable around the trunk and hooked it, then reeled the cable back in, pulling out the bush. Worked like a charm.

Anyway, when I decided to be finished for the day, I was gross and sweaty so I went in to take a shower. My bra was pinching me, which is no big surprise because as we know all bras are useless and uncomfortable, especially when you've actually been moving around and not posing for a VS ad. And I had been doing a lot of moving. I fidgeted with the bra while the water was warming up and realized. It wasn't the bra that was hurting me.

Hi, lump. How have I not met you before?

It was as big as a pencil eraser. You're asking yourself the same question I did. How in the world had I missed it? And it hurt. Weird. Weren't breast lumps supposed to not hurt at all? Well, I knew I was not getting out of this one, I had to have a mammogram, stat. So I called on Monday and got in on Thursday. That was the beginning.

I told myself I wasn't going to tell Bob. After all, it could be nothing. But I did. I was scared.

Over the next few weeks the pencil eraser grew. Actually by the time I had the second mammogram and ultrasound, it was very visible and bruised. By the time I had the mastectomy August 22, it was about the size of a pool ball. (This might explain how I hadn't noticed the lump -- it was growing really, really fast.)

Cancer changes everything.

It changed me physically, of course, but it changed me emotionally and mentally, too. And it goes without saying that it changed me spiritually. Cancer became my teacher.

I learned about time.

Going into cancer treatment I may have had ideas that it would be like any other appointments or meetings. There's a set time for everything and people stick to the schedule. Chemotherapy changes all that. There are a given number of chemo chairs and a given number of people scheduled with as many different treatment plans. What all that means is that some days you wait.

I think the first time or two I felt the usual amount of "why-is-this-taking-so-long" frustration. But I started paying attention to the people and the nurses and knew in my heart that I needed to take a deep breath, slow myself down, and just pray. Time felt very elastic. It sped up and slowed down and I just went with it. This lesson has actually has extended past cancer treatment into the rest of my life. If I walk into a crowded grocery and fight and push to go fast, it just makes it all harder and more frustrating. So I just start looking at people, take a deep breath, slow myself down, and pray.

I learned to be grateful.

One of the first things I learned from cancer is that being grateful for something -- anything -- brings more peace and calm than anything else. Before I knew that the results of my PET scan were clear, it was very hard to be peaceful. I was scared to death. But the one thing I could be grateful for was that friends and family were praying. God was hearing from so many people, and some who don't normally talk to him much. And knowing that brought me peace.

After I was completely bald, I was grateful that it was winter. Wearing a hat indoors and out seemed okay when it was cold outside. When my toenails started lifting, bleeding, and leaking, I was grateful that it was warm enough to wear sandals, especially when they were painful. I was grateful for the side effects I did not get, and that list was pretty long. Every time I thought about a side effect I didn't have I thought, "someone is praying for me" and I was grateful.

I learned about suffering.

I spent a fair amount of time after finding the lump asking, "why?" Why me? Why Bob? Why, God!? Asking that question felt icky because in essence I was calling God on the carpet. It's was like saying to him, "I know best how my life is supposed to go."

I'm not saying that in the worst times, when I was in the most pain, I didn't cry and ask the question again. I'm only human. But every time I asked the question and there was no answer, I put my big girl panties on and told myself, "I just got picked."

There's a great bit in the book Interior Freedom by Jacques Philippe that says it better than I can:

By accepting the sufferings "offered" by life and allowed by God for our progress and purification, we spare ourselves much harder ones. We need to develop this kind of realism and, once and for all, stop dreaming of a life without suffering or conflict. That is the life of heaven, not earth. We must take up our cross and follow Christ courageously every day; the bitterness of that cross will sooner or later be transformed into sweetness. 

If I really believe that God loves me, and only wants the best for me, then I have to believe that even cancer can be a good thing. It has certainly taught me that I'm not the boss of me.

Still learning.

Some cancer lessons like those came fairly quickly. But I don't know yet what I am supposed to learn from being an amputee.

And I say it that way because we, I, gloss over the word "mastectomy." It sounds like "tonsillectomy," which makes it sound like a simple procedure. It's not. It's the removal of the entire breast.

To the stranger on the street or even people at work, I look normal. And I'm glad. I don't want people to feel uncomfortable. I wear a breast prosthetic every day. This foam thingy is inserted into a pocket in a mastectomy bra. Sounds fine, right? Not really. Every day it hurts, it shifts, it pinches. I've actually said out loud, "Why can't they make a mastectomy bra that doesn't HURT!? It's like torture on torture!"

Plus, it's not a perfect match. IF a person were to look closely they'd see the difference. So I spend time choosing tops that help disguise the difference. Tunics work sometimes. I put on big, drapey scarves that fool the eye. I wear jackets and keep tugging the right side to make sure it's strategically placed. So no one would know if they didn't know. I've thought about going au naturale. After all, when I was bald I was bald and I didn't apologize for it and no one cared. But this feels different. I don't even like seeing myself in the mirror sans prosthetic. Something is very, very absent.

The physical change is permanent. Even when I have reconstruction, it will be a faux breast. I'm looking forward to it for the simple reason that then I can ditch the prosthetic. But I'm not going to kid myself, it will come with its own set of challenges like everything else has.

I know through faith that our existing in 3 dimensions as humans is important. The fact that Christ was born, he was human, he had a body, makes our own important.

But what is God showing me? Maybe that the shape and size isn't what's most important. Regardless of what's left, I can still kneel to pray. I can still dance with my husband at weddings. I still enjoy a boat ride. I can still snuggle with my dog. I can still pull weeds in the garden, I'm just not doing it. And if I lose more than just one breast, I'll still be able to do what I can do until I can't do that any more. The physical can all be taken away, but you can't amputate my faith.

Not a bad lesson to learn.

So, thank you, cancer. And happy anniversary.