One was motivated to support other caregivers because they would have loved to have had that support while they were caring for their mom, best friend, and cousin. Another was the first person diagnosed in their entire family and knows what it is like to feel alone. And still, another went through two bouts of strenuous surgeries whilst being a single mother and understands the value of support.  

These six men and women each saw the value in talking with someone who has been there and wants to share that there is hope. Individually these journeys are treacherous and exhausting but together they provide hope. Half of the group underwent treatment during a pandemic, giving them a unique understanding of what it is like to undergo treatment alone. No one to sit with them as they battle their disease.  

We are grateful and excited to welcome this new class of volunteers and are inspired by the overwhelming sense of caring and devotion they bring. One served 20 years in the military, aided in special Olympics, provided rides for cancer patients to their treatment, and still felt that he had more to give. Another saw her mother diagnosed, was diagnosed herself, and was inspired to help when she saw young women diagnosed felt compelled to tell them they, like her, could beat it. While each journey is unique some feelings and emotions are universal.  

• Carmen – Breast Cancer, Stage 4 Bone Cancer, Liver Cancer 
• Dana – Prostate Cancer 
• Erika – Stage 3 Triple Negative Breast Cancer 
• Victoria – Caregiver 
• Ashwini – Breast Cancer 
• Miriam – Thyroid Cancer 

The group joins our team of nearly 500 Support Volunteers already committed to providing peer mentoring for cancer patients and the people who love them.  To connect with these, or one of our other volunteers, please call our Programs Team at 877-HOPENET (877.467.3638) or visit cancerhopenetwork.org.

By Suzanne Leger

The post CHN Trains a New Class of Volunteers appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.

I have been twice diagnosed with cancer: Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in February 2009 and DCIS of the breast in February 2019. The underlying theme for me both times has been to focus on the fact I was given a very optimistic prognosis. I know that doesn’t happen for everyone, unfortunately, and I find maintaining the “gratitude attitude” has helped me tremendously.

The biggest difference between my two experiences was having the support of family for my HL, and having to pretty much get through DCIS alone. That was probably the most difficult part of my most recent diagnosis, having to ask for help from coworkers, neighbors and friends, which of course they gave so graciously.

I think one of the most important skills I have developed through this journey is to be my own advocate. I find even the best healthcare professionals can be overwhelmed by their patient load and it helps if you maintain that level of organization and awareness as to your treatment protocol. Something as simple as coming to appointments with questions/observations/concerns in hand means making the most of the time that I have with my healthcare team and accessing the resources available while I am there.

I had hoped my recent diagnosis was going to evolve into an employment opportunity as a “patient concierge” at my treatment facility. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, all the plans and inroads I was making came to a halt. I decided that my goal of giving back had to take a different trajectory, and it led me to CHN in the hopes of becoming a volunteer.

I hope that I am able to help patients and caregivers feel validated, reassured, equipped, comforted and empowered.

Want to learn more about Stef’s journey? Discover tips and tricks she’s developed? Visit her website – https://www.inymm.com/

The post A Different Trajectory: Journey to Hope appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.

That was the moment she realized that something was truly wrong.  Bhawna was diagnosed with breast cancer.

“It wasn’t one tumor, it was multiple tumors,” she remembers. Those tumors would result in a mastectomy, chemo and radiation. She was fortunate that it was caught early – and remains appreciative of the aggressive “let’s overtreat rather than under treat,” philosophy of her NHS doctors in London.
While hearing the words “you have cancer” is never easy, patients and caregivers often experience their “moment of crisis” at different points of their cancer journey. For Bhawna, that moment came after her successful surgery, as she was preparing for chemo.

“Coming home felt like the beginning of my ‘real’ cancer experience. I couldn’t lift my kids up and they didn’t know why. My fear was getting stronger as the time for chemo got closer.”

She bought a wig, but soon ditched it for a large collection of hats to mask the hair she’d had to shave after it began falling out in clumps.  “I’d never worn hats before, but they,” she trails off. “They weren’t bad.” Chemo really made her feel sick but she was going to get through this as all this time her focus was that she had to get better for her kids and her family.

Last summer, we worked with Bhawna and her NICE (Network Indian Cultural Exchange Employee Resource Group) colleagues at Novartis to present a workshop on providing culturally competent cancer care for Asian Americans. As part of that event, we discussed the culture of privacy that is often important to patients of Indian backgrounds. Deciding what, if anything, you want to disclose about your cancer journey is a difficult choice for most patients. For many in the Indian community, sharing personal information like a cancer diagnosis often has an additional layer of nuance and hesitation.

Bhawna appreciated that cultural norm but decided to bring her family into the conversation.

“I shared it with my immediate family and in-laws. I shared, but not broadly. Some of them shared with our extended circles, but I limited the number of people I told,” she recalls. “I was lucky to have my aunt who is also a doctor. I could discuss anything clinical about the treatment with her.”

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Her sharing allowed the family to come together in support. Her father travelled from India to be with her during surgery and her beloved aunt came from Chicago to make the transition home after surgery a bit easier. Her sister flew in from India when her chemo began and her sister in law went with her to get her head shaved. Her husband was “super-supportive” throughout the entire process. “We grew as a couple. We figured out how to work even more as a team.”

Friends and colleagues rallied in practical, helpful ways. “My work was wonderful. I took an extended leave and they were really very supportive. Friends would come and take me out, they’d pick up the kids. My Nanny would cook for my two little kids on the days I had chemo. A lot of times, they’d drag me out to do non-cancer related things. That normalcy was so meaningful.”

Telling family and close friends was one thing. The harder decision was deciding what to tell her children, who were 2 and 5 at the time. “Having kids was the hardest part – and also part of what got me through.” It was a balancing act of age-appropriate open communication and protecting them.

“I shared what I was going through, but didn’t mention my diagnosis,” she recalls. “I told them that I was sick and that I had to take strong medicine that might make Mommy’s hair fall. I didn’t want to scare them.” She recalls the pain of keeping her five year old away from the hospital while she was recovering.

“I didn’t want him to see all of my pipes and tubes.”

She encourages patients to be aware of their limitations and realistic with the goals they set for themselves by sharing her own experience.  “I was very keen to get back to work. The UK has more flexible policies about leave and medical time off, but I decided it was time to get back.” The return to routine was welcome, but even with flexibility and reduced hours, the fatigue and the break from the “what’s next?” of active treatment was overwhelming.

Counseling sessions and continued support from her husband and community were helpful as she adjusted back to her new normal. She found inspiration in the book “Dying to be Me,” a memoir by Anita Moorjani. She worked hard to associate her identity with more than her career.

Bhawna is appreciative of the new perspective she’s gained. “A diagnosis like this is life-changing. It makes you stop and consider what matters in the grand scheme of things.”

The post A mother’s fight appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.

In addition to her service as a CHN Support Volunteer, Debbie Woodbury is a patient educator with Pathways Women’s Cancer Teaching Project and a member of the Carol G. Simon Cancer Center Oncology Community Advisory Board at Overlook Medical Center. Debbie is a ten-year breast cancer survivor, a speaker, and the author of two books, You Can Thrive After Treatment and How to Build an Amazing Life After Treatment. 

In these matters the only certainty is that nothing is certain.  Pliny the Elder

The first casualty of cancer is certainty.

Of course, I’m only speaking for myself. And, as someone who had gone through five years of miscarriages and infertility before cancer, I should have already known that life doesn’t always go the way you expect.
Still, I walked into the breast center 15 years later without a doubt I knew the drill: remove everything above the waist, put on a robe, let the technician flatten a breast between panes of glass, hold my breath, repeat, get dressed, leave and, a few days later, open the letter confirming all was well.
I made it to the leaving part, but the letter never came. Instead, a nurse from my gynecologist’s office called to tell me that my mammogram was “suspicious.”

At that exact point, I was no longer certain of anything and fell into cancer’s black hole.
Over the next four and a half months of appointments, tests, biopsies, phone calls, internet searches, and crying jags, I was desperate to find firm footing. At first, I clung to every word uttered by my medical team, believing that everything they told me was guaranteed.

But time after time my expectations proved false and I was forced to adapt to the unexpected. The “suspicious” mammogram that was probably nothing, turned into cancer. The lumpectomy and radiation I would probably need turned into a mastectomy. The phone call I was promised with the results of my biopsy didn’t come. The diagnosis of stage 0 breast cancer felt certain, until debate raged as to whether it was truly cancer or not.

It got to the point that I told myself I had no right to any expectations at all.
It’s hard to let go of certainty. It was especially hard once treatment finished and I expected to be “over” cancer. As I worked on letting go of that expectation, I had to ask myself “what is normal after cancer, anyway?”  I had no easy answer, but realized the only certainty I could count on was to expect the unexpected and find the support I needed to work through the unknown.
Intellectually, I know anything can happen (or not, as was made painfully clear by the five years it took us to make a baby.) Despite the hard lessons I’ve learned from miscarriages, infertility and cancer, I still make plans and have expectations. I’m just not as surprised when things don’t go as planned.

I can’t say I’ve completely embraced uncertainty, but I have become a bit more mindful of accepting the present as it is. In truth, I’m just not shocked anymore when the unexpected happens because I’ve learned that the only certainty is that nothing is certain.

Has cancer made you more aware of uncertainty and the risk of having expectations?
Let’s talk about it.

Survival > Existence,
Debbie

The post Surviving On Hope: Letting go of uncertainty appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.

In addition to her service as a CHN Support Volunteer, Debbie Woodbury is a patient educator with Pathways Women’s Cancer Teaching Project and a member of the Carol G. Simon Cancer Center Oncology Community Advisory Board at Overlook Medical Center. Debbie is a ten-year breast cancer survivor, a speaker, and the author of two books, You Can Thrive After Treatment and How to Build an Amazing Life After Treatment.

One of the hardest things I had to deal with after my mastectomy was the pressure to be over cancer.
I know they meant well, but the friends and family who announced “the worst is over” and moved on left me behind in their dust, unable to follow.

Of course, all of the pressure I felt wasn’t external. I pressured myself too by expecting somehow to return to “normal,” an expectation that took its own sweet time to die.
But slowly, and with immense support, I learned how to relieve the pressure.
The emotional fallout of cancer takes a heavy toll. Experiencing your feelings in your own way, at your own pace, can be a challenge.

My pre-cancer self knew nothing of the disease. I stumbled through the four and a half months it took to get a diagnosis like a kindergartner in a graduate course.

At six and a half months in, I had a mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. By then, my bright red, hip-to-hip scar, missing nipple and asymmetrical breasts gave me a pretty good handle on cancer’s physical effects.
Getting my head around the emotional consequences was infinitely harder.

Looking back, it’s not like I didn’t feel anything. I was miserable, fatigued, lonely, stressed, angry and overwhelmed. But, unlike physical scars, the severity of those wounds wasn’t obvious when I looked in the mirror.

I had no idea then that recuperating from the emotional devastation of cancer was going to be even harder than recuperating from the physical damage.

In fact, people I trusted told me the exact opposite. As soon as I got home from the hospital, friends and family expressed relief that “the worst is over” and returned to their regularly scheduled lives.  A cancer survivor I knew and one of my doctors assured me that cancer would take a year of my life and then “it would be over.”

On the one-year anniversary of that first frightening mammogram, I was nowhere near over cancer and hit a new emotional low. Luckily, I was seeing an oncology therapist. She pointed out the futility of trying to conform to a set end date and empowered me to believe in my right to experience cancer in my own way, at my own pace.

With her help, I learned how to cope with the pressure to be over cancer:

1. Focus on Support: When we’re sick, we go to a doctor. It shouldn’t be any different when we’re emotionally traumatized. I had no clue how to get out from under my misery, fatigue, loneliness and anger when I started seeing my therapist. Working with her helped me slowly face and dissect the pain behind my emotions and get to a better place.

2. Focus on Healing: As a five-year survivor, I can honestly say I’m not over cancer and probably never will be. I have, however, healed to a great extent and am much less emotionally distraught than I was during my dark days.

3. Focus on Connecting: Talking with other patients and survivors let me know my emotional struggles were normal and I wasn’t alone. It may be a club no one wants to join but, once you’re in, belonging connects you to others who are uniquely qualified to provide understanding and validation.
A pivotal moment of healing came a few months after my surgery when my husband and I were invited to dinner by friends. I balked because I wasn’t over cancer and was trying to hide it by telling people I was fine. I was exhausted and sick of lying, but afraid to let others in on how hard cancer hit me emotionally.
When our friends asked how I was doing, I answered honestly and was shocked at the relief I felt. Better yet, the trust I put in them was rewarded with empathy and compassion and I was able to go on with the evening feeling heard.

Dealing with the pressure to be over cancer isn’t easy, and it’s not something I could have ever done alone. It takes work, time, and a great deal of support.

Do you experience pressure to be over cancer? If you do, do you find that pressure difficult to deal with and what do you do to cope with it?

Survival > Existence,
Debbie

The post How to get over the pressure to be over cancer appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.

In addition to her service as a CHN Support Volunteer, Debbie Woodbury is a patient educator with Pathways Women’s Cancer Teaching Project and a member of the Carol G. Simon Cancer Center Oncology Community Advisory Board at Overlook Medical Center. Debbie is a ten-year breast cancer survivor, a speaker, and the author of two books, You Can Thrive After Treatment and How to Build an Amazing Life After Treatment.

A few months after my mastectomy and TRAM flap reconstruction, I had it out with the light fixture in my walk-in closet.

Like me, the bulb was burnt out. Removing the cover to replace it was easy, but I couldn’t get the cover back on for the life of me.

As I struggled, I got more and more frustrated. I didn’t want to give up and ask for help; I wanted to make it work.

Suddenly, my brain made a hard left turn and all I really wanted was to smash the darn thing onto the floor.

Which I did.

The cover hit the floor and exploded. Shards of plastic sprayed everywhere. It was a moment of violent, beautiful clarity that shocked me awake.

I was a cauldron of red-hot anger, and I hadn’t even realized it until that moment.
Looking back, it’s my denial that shocks me now. Of course, I was angry. My entire life had been turned upside-down. I had a bright red scar from hip to hip, and a reconstructed mound and missing nipple where I used to have a breast. I was afraid, lonely, guilt-ridden and traumatized.

My anger was that part of me that railed against it all. It was the part that hated submitting when punching someone or running made much more sense to my fight or flight impulse. It was the part of me that was sick and tired of letting cancer dictate my life.
Anger was as valid an emotion as any other. By making itself known when that light cover hit the floor, it forced me to deal with it. Luckily, I met with a therapist at my cancer center on a regular basis. She encouraged me to talk through my anger, first with her and then with others.

Our conversations helped me sort through my general anger at having cancer and my specific issues with family and friends who didn’t understand why I  “wasn’t “over” cancer. She also reassured me that it was normal to feel anger as a result of living with cancer.

Months after the walk-in closet incident, I returned to the breast center for the first mammogram of my remaining breast after my mastectomy. As I wrote in an earlier post, the technician’s ignorance and gross insensitivity made me “over the top angry.”

As extremely difficult as that experience was, I didn’t swallow my anger. Instead, I was able to express it constructively and get a resolution that worked for me.

Denying my anger and characterizing it as “bad,” resulted in bad behavior (and, ten years later, the light in my walk-in closet is still missing a cover.) As a normal emotional response, anger isn’t good or bad – it just is. Dealing with it openly can be difficult, but it’s a lot more constructive than smashing things.

You can read more about my struggles with cancer anger in “Seeing Red: Coping with Anger During Cancer” from CURE.
Survival > Existence,

Debbie
Want to read more from Debbie? Connect with her on Twitter, Facebook or Where We Go Now.

The post Surviving On Hope: Working through cancer anger appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.

After months of mis-diagnoses (“Like many women back then.”), she went to a new doctor with a lump that wouldn’t go away. It turned out to be cancer that had metastasized to her lymph nodes. The prognosis was grim. Even with chemotherapy, another year of life was a long shot for this single mother of two.

 The diagnosis came just three months after she’d started dating her husband. She laughs, remembering. “I had a girlfriend. She went up to him and said, “You know she’s been diagnosed. If you’re going to walk away, now is the time.’ He started to cry. My husband was six foot five and weighed 300 lbs. She was this tiny thing. But she said what needed to be said. And he stuck. Years later, I was fortunate to be able to stick with him through his things. He had throat cancer on both sides of his neck. He had heart failure. We bought a year of extra time with him thanks to an LVAD (left ventricular assist device).”

She worked through treatment and celebrated as life returned to normal. “When my hair grew back, I set my wig on fire. To me that wig said that I had cancer.” Her advice for patients still going through treatment flows from that experience. “I tell people that when their chemo is going to be done, plan something for that day. Go somewhere. Do something. Give yourself treats.”

She’ll never forget the friends who’ve stood by her side. During treatment, their focus was to help her “keep normal life going.” It wasn’t fancy, but it was meaningful. “I was a single mom with two kids. I couldn’t get wild and crazy. They weren’t trying to fix me or pamper me. We’d go to dinner, to the beach. We went to see Billy Joel. That was probably the best way she could have helped, just going out and having fun.” 

Until treatment is over, she’s encourages patients to find the support that helped her – and the stiff upper lip that is her hallmark. “You just have to go on. You can get past this. You’ll have times when you will feel really bad. Call someone. Don’t sit there and suffer. If not us, call your best friend. You can pity party after you’re all cured.”

She came across an article about Cancer Hope Network and thought it might be a good fit. “I was feeling better, it was time to give back.” She attended training and was on her way to her first match – a belly dancer. “We had a great conversation on how to continue what she did for a living. I showed her my prosthesis. We talked about how she could sew some lace over it.” It was an auspicious beginning to her years as a Support Volunteer. She met up with another of her matches while on vacation. “We’d been matched for a while and she called to invite me to her wedding. I told her that I’d be in Bermuda. Turns out, she was honeymooning in the hotel next door. I’d like to have all my matches in Bermuda!”

Her kids are grown. “I wanted to be around for them. Now, I have four grandchildren. Two live in the same town with me and the other two are close by.” Her grandchildren are understandably proud of their Nana. “They understand what I’ve gone through. One grandson wrote a paper about me for his confirmation at his church. He wants to become a nurse.” They’ve all internalized life’s important lesson, “We never say no to Nana.”

In the decades since her treatment, she’s faced an array of complications, spending much of her time since 2015 in and out of the hospital. A hole in her colon and the infections it brought mean that she lives with an ostomy bag. It hasn’t been simple, (“Cancer was easier!”) but she hasn’t let it stop her. And things are looking up, “It’s been over a year since I’ve been in the hospital. It’s been great.”

After all these years, she’s reflective. “It’s been a long time. I enjoy talking to people, knowing that I’m helping them, knowing I’m giving them some sort of inspiration.” She’s ready to step up whenever someone needs it “I am there as a backup when people are in an especially bad place.”

In addition to her work as a CHN Support Volunteer, she remains a dedicated volunteer for her local hospital and The Valerie Fund’s Camp Happy Times, helping people of all ages live the fullest version of their lives.

Her focus on positive thinking is strong (she allows herself one “pity party” each year on St. Patrick’s Day). “You have to go through it. Don’t let it control you. Don’t make cancer who you are. Cancer is just a disease.”

The post From belly dancers to Bermuda: finding hope after cancer. appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.

The day began as volunteers shared their stories, discussing challenges like recurring or metastasizing cancers, working and caring for children through treatment or facing life with lymphedema. They talked about treatments – including acupuncture, immunotherapy, bone marrow transplants, robotic surgeries and participating in clinical trials.

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Then, came the pet discussions – including tales of foster cats, a giant German shepherd and a grumpy cat named George.

“Each Support Volunteer we train is unique – some are funny or quirky or have wildly interesting hobbies. Nearly all have faced a wide range of challenges in life – some cancer related, some not,” said Cynthia Gutierrez-Bernstein, CHN’s Director of Programs. “While many matches begin with a shared diagnosis or similar treatments, we also help cancer patients and caregivers connect based on personality or lifestyle circumstances.”

The survivor volunteers share practical advice and lessons they’ve learned since their own diagnoses. “My surgeon didn’t have time to answer all of my questions, so I asked if there was a resident or medical student I could talk to,” recalled Mary Ellen.

Linda, a breast cancer survivor who has been a Member Connections volunteer since 2015, encourages patients to visit hospitals and treatment centers they’re considering. “See how you feel when you walk in,” she advises. “You have to be comfortable where you are. You wouldn’t buy a house or an apartment without a visit.”

“Cancer Support Community is pleased to partner with CHN,” said Jen Sinclair Program Director for CSCGLV.  “Our collaboration helps people move through their cancer experience with information, encouragement and confidence.”

“CSC is doing amazing work to help patients, survivors and caregivers in the Greater Lehigh Valley,” Gutierrez-Bernstein continued. “Together, we will ensure that no one faces cancer alone.”
We are pleased to welcome the following volunteers to the CHN/CSC-GLV family:

• Amanda – Breast (with recurrence to bone and organs), stage 4
• Barbara – Uterine/Bladder
• Cecelia – Uterine, stage 1B
• Dianne – Melanoma, stage 3C
• Hally – Breast, stage 2
• Katy – Acute Myeloid Leukemia (recur, FLT3+, t(6:9) mutations)
• Mary Ellen – Multiple cancers (basal, melanoma, breast cancer recurrence, thyroid), all stage 1
• Rebecca – Breast, stage 0/1
• Susanne – Breast, stage 4, Chloroma (leukemia)

ABOUT Cancer Support Community -Greater Lehigh Valley
The Cancer Support Community’s programs help people affected by cancer – survivors, caregivers, friends and family – regain control of their lives, reduce stress and isolation, and restore a sense of hope for a better quality of life regardless of the stage of the disease or the type of cancer.

About Cancer Hope Network
Cancer Hope Network provides free one-on-one emotional support to adult cancer patients and their caregivers. Each of our 400+ volunteers is at least one year post-treatment or successfully undergoing maintenance therapies. CHN Support Volunteers have faced more than 80 cancer types and speak 15 languages. They offer encouragement from diagnosis, through treatment and into survivorship.

The post Cancer Hope Network partners with Cancer Support Community GLV to train new class of volunteers. appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.

She’s a survivor, a caregiver and an advocate who’s started a radio show to share stories of hope and recovery. She fought through death (literally!) and depression.

Today, Malisa’s blog, Embracing Our Scars encourages women as they travel the ups and downs of breast cancer. She’s turned her “pain into purpose” and is “living the best of my life today.”

“I wasn’t expecting that diagnosis,” she recalls. “There was no history of breast cancer in my family. I always was the one who got her mammogram done, so when I got the news I was shocked and in disbelief. This was hard for my family and to everyone who knew and loved me. I was diagnosed in August 2015. I had a double mastectomy on October 19^th, 2015, only to die a few hours after a successful surgery. Till this day the doctors do not know what have caused me to die, but thank God, I’m still here.”
As a patient herself, and a caregiver for loved ones who had cancer, Malisa understands the view from both sides of the sheet. “I have learned that when a person is sick all you can do is show them love and compassion by being of service to them. They need a lot of tender care. There were times when the person I was taking care of just wanted me to sit with them and not say anything. A caregiver must have patience!”

She fondly recalls one of the most surprising ways a friend helped during her own post-treatment bout with depression. Rather than spend weeks planning a visit from out of state, he waited to call until he was nearly to her house. “After he talked with me for a while, he made me get dressed and go out…I did not want to go because of how I was feeling about myself. Before treatment, I had always been very confident in how I looked. That was gone. I was not ready to go out in the world and allow people to see me without any breast. By the time we were halfway through our meal, I began to feel comfortable. That was the beginning of me moving out of my depression into embracing my scars and seeing myself as being a woman and still beautiful.”

Although caregiving and support often includes touching, heartwarming moments like that visit, Malisa also recognizes the reality of caregiving. “Sometimes, they are going to have bad days and they might take it out on you. When this happens, we must remember that it is not personal, it is not about us.”
Malisa shares her hard-won wisdom with others, “The best advice I received was to not allow what I had gone through to take over my life. My experience with breast cancer was that it could hold you hostage. You may feel like your life is over and that you are not a woman. That’s not true.” She urges the patients and survivors she counsels to remember “You have a life to live. Live like there’s no tomorrow.”
Need perspective? Looking for some encouragement through a tough diagnosis or into survivorship? Get matched with Malisa – or another Support Volunteer who has been where you are.  Click HERE or call 877-HOPENET (877-467-3638) today.

The post Embracing our scars appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.

Today, Hugo and Amanda share 37 years of marriage, two daughters, two grandchildren and have another grandchild on the way. They’ve also navigated multiple cancers diagnoses, a variety of treatments and participation in several clinical trials.

A routine trip to the gynecologist in 2000 revealed a lump, which was soon confirmed as breast cancer. Within a week, Amanda had received surgery and was starting four rounds of chemotherapy and 30 days of radiation. “At the time, the information in the Internet was very limited,” Hugo, recalled.

“As a father and a husband we want to protect our family and we struggle to balance the information yet spare our family. As a husband my duty is to protect her and not only inspire confidence that everything will be ok, but also be understanding or her fears and feelings.”

“One of the hardest things was having to go home and give her bad news. After surgery, the doctor called to say that the margins weren’t clear and she needed another operation. I pulled into the driveway and heard her laughing with my brother and mother. Those who have being on this road know how difficult is to give this kind of news to the person that you love the most. But Amanda’s resiliency and love for life is awe-inspiring.”

They called on that resilience when she was diagnosed with thyroid cancer that required more surgery, iodine and radiation treatments. After treatment, they enjoyed seven happy, cancer-free years until 2011 when a checkup revealed elevated markers and testing confirmed that cancer had metastasized to her lungs. Since 2011, she’s been receiving palliative care and has participated in several clinical trials.

“As much as I want to, I cannot protect her and the girls from everything. I accept that this is our reality that every three weeks we have to go for treatment, that every three months we have to go for scans. I accept the reality of my life. What’s difficult for me is to accept that she has to go through this.”

Hugo’s advice to new caregivers is straightforward. “Don’t be afraid to admit that you’re scared. But don’t be paralyzed. Be your own advocate. Don’t ever stop telling her how much you love her and that you are going to be there for her. “

He encourages caregivers to reach out for connection. “My wife was the first person in either of our families to be diagnosed. Cancer wasn’t something people talked about. Cancer is not going to stop us from living a full life. Starting the conversation helps break down taboos.”

“I know tomorrow is not promised to any one. We must enjoy today. We can’t waste time crying for tomorrow. When this first happened, I’d always say ‘One day at a time….’

“Since she was first diagnosed back in 2000, our love for each other got stronger. We renewed our wedding vows on our 30^th anniversary, we celebrated out daughters sweet sixteens’ and weddings, we received God’s blessing in the form of two grandkids and are looking forward to meeting our third grandchild soon. All those things happened while we were living our life “One Day at a Time.”

The post Caring and loving when cancer comes back to stay. appeared first on Cancer Hope Network.