"I immediately lay down on the bed, face up, and for some reason placed my right hand on my left breast (which I don't normally do) – and shock. There it was: a big lump."

Deborah Hill, intuitive coach and counselor






Been There Blogs: Breast Cancer
By Deborah Hill

 

ONE WEEK BEFORE SURGERY – AND NOT COUNTING

Posted on October 28, 2008

 

Only one week before surgery. My husband says I'm not in denial, that I'm deferring. I like that perspective. I don't have time to mope or worry. I'll deal with the heavy stuff when and if it comes. I have less stamina but am not weak; I have a lot of life in me. I refuse to worry about what the future will bring. I want to be happy with the time that I have.

 

Even with these good intentions, I find myself rushing to get everything done before the surgery comes. But I don't even know what "everything" is. I think it's the stuff you fill up time with so you feel important. No one will die if I don't mail a thank-you card or answer an e-mail. I'm trying to hold onto finishing my "important stuff," but my friends Andy and Caroline were reeling me in to their lake house. It started with little suggestions, then e-mails, and now they're bombarding me with phone calls. "It's up to you, dear, but we'd love to have you stop by." Their lake home is actually between Greensboro and Atlanta, and it's hard to find an excuse to not stop by for a visit when I'm traveling. An hour or two, not more, should do it, I decide. I finally head up their driveway at 3 p.m., thinking I'll have some dinner and hit the road. I obviously have so much to do.

 

Caroline and Andy have other plans. We head out on a "lobbing" mission with towels, sunscreen and soft drinks in hand. Lobbing entails sitting on a raft or floating lounge chair in the middle of a placid lake at 80-some degrees with no one around but us laughing and talking. We lake-lobbed for four hours (!) in the beautiful S.C. foothills, the waves swaying us gently and the world drifting away.

 

I slept like a baby at their home after being fed an extraordinary meal. When I woke up I wrote overlooking the lake. It astounds me how many obstacles we put in the way of enjoying ourselves.

 

"A week off" I called it. But what was I off from? There is no such time as "time off." There is only now. And if we aren't here enjoying life, we just aren't here at all. Nothing else matters but what is happening right now. Surgery will happen in time, and I'll deal with it because it's on the agenda, and I can deal with anything that's on my path. Right now I'm going to continue to lob and be loved.

 

Next week: Remember, O hospital patient, you are in charge

 

Deborah Hill is author of Unlimited Life: Limiting Beliefs and Belief Busting Power Truths and The Writings of the Masters: Enlightening Lessons for Everyday Life. She also writes PINK's Manage Yourself Blog. Visit yourintuitivelife.com for more on Hill.

To comment on this blog, e-mail blog@pinkmagazine.com and enter "Breast Cancer" in the subject line.

. . . . . . . . . .

 

MY BODY IS A BEING
Posted on September 30, 2008

 

I thought I had a pretty good understanding of the mind/soul/body connection. Dealing with this life-threatening illness has taught me a great deal more. I have been what some would call a health nut for most of my life. I've avoided chemicals in all forms, am vegetarian, take vitamins, exercise intensely and meditate. I was very shocked to learn that my body had cancer. At first I felt like a failure. I also felt betrayed by my body. I have since come to understand more about the body and how some diseases happen, and I am grateful that I've taken such good care of it, so it can heal.

 

Power Truth No. 10 in my book, Unlimited Life, says: "I am not my body. I am a unique, essential being living inside my body." I learned this while doing yoga 35 years ago. I have since learned to identify with the "real" me that is separate from my mind and body. I've taken care of my body but thought of it merely as a vehicle for my soul.

 

Now I understand that the body is a being in its own right. The body has been in existence for millions of years – an animal evolving over time with eons of experiences and information. The Eastern philosophers speak of the body as a temple, and it's true. It is a valuable dwelling place for us as we experience life. In fact, we can't experience life in a full sense without it. However, the body is more than a temple; it is a living, breathing temple that has its own awareness. The body has fears, needs, personality, understanding, instincts, knowledge, pain and joy. It also has an incredible ability to heal itself.

 

(Those who get squeamish might want to skip to the next paragraph.) I remember watching C-sections when I was a nurse-midwife. The body was cut open; the baby was taken out and the uterus was pulled out and placed on the abdomen, sewed up and put back in. The next day I'd see these women walking around the halls of the hospital smiling and unaware of the trauma that the body had faced. They healed and had more babies; life went on. I know of no other entity that can heal as well as the body.

 

Through my experience with cancer I've validated even more how amazing the body actually is. It learns and adapts daily, and we are unaware of it. Several years ago I was running in the woods in the fall. My foot landed in a hole that was covered with leaves and twisted badly. I heard the tendon snap over the ankle – not torn, but OUCH. It healed over time, and I continued to run. Last summer I wasn't paying attention while I ran, and my foot hit the edge of a hole. It didn't twist though. This time it stabilized. My body had learned how to keep the foot flat and navigate over the hole without my thinking about it.

 

Another time I was skiing on a beautiful day with perfect weather and snow. It felt like I was floating down a heavily powdered slope, and I heard a noise. I realized that the "noise" was my body laughing. I didn't intend to laugh. My mind was not thinking. My body was experiencing its joy in an entirely different way.

 

The body has its own issues. It has its own history. It's had its own experiences in this life that it has adjusted to. It has heredity to deal with. This means that there are familial and genetic tendencies in the body that define it. It faces new challenges with pollution and chemicals that are around and in it, and it has to adapt to these. The body has to work through all of these issues. We are each a guest of an entity that is growing and evolving. It comes into this world with these issues, and we as beings in the body can help it along. But there are some things that will be unavoidable.

 

I found that in order to help my body, I had to get to know it as a living being with needs of its own. My body was a real hero, and I did my best to help it along. I realized that my body had been fighting this disease from months to years – and never complained. The only thing I noticed was that I slept eight hours a night (a lot for me), and I had less stamina and endurance when I ran.

 

I've learned a lot from my body. It takes things in stride and does what it needs to do. It lives in present time and deals with whatever is happening in the moment. The body complains through pain only when the situation is acute, but it does get weary and frustrated. It wants me to pay attention to it and give it what it needs. I learned to tune in to what the body wanted to eat, not what my mind wanted or thought it should have. I had this tremendous craving for Mediterranean food and never tired of it. I didn't stuff myself, though, as my body got tired when I overate. I tried not to tire it. I still exercised, but avoided pushing it to fatigue. Meditation helped to relieve stress, which is so difficult for the body to handle over time. I did my best to sleep and rest when the body needed it, instead of supercharging it with coffee and power drinks. I exercised when I could, rested when it was tired. Sleep was difficult, and I had to resort to drugs to help with that.

 

I'm learning a lot in this new phase of my journey. I'm making friends with my body on a whole new level. It's not an organic machine. It's an amazing, living being that I have the honor of inhabiting. Loving, appreciating and taking care of my body – supporting it as best as I can – has now become not only an essential, but also a soulful experience.

Deborah Hill is author of Unlimited Life: Limiting Beliefs and Belief Busting Power Truths and The Writings of the Masters: Enlightening Lessons for Everyday Life. She also writes PINK's Manage Yourself Blog. Visit yourintuitivelife.com for more on Hill.

To comment on this blog, e-mail blog@pinkmagazine.com and enter "Breast Cancer" in the subject line.

. . . . . . . . . .

 

WHY I WANT TO LIVE, AND HOW TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN
Posted on September 16, 2008

 

Having cancer meant that I might die soon. The realization hit even before the doctor said the words, "You have invasive cancer." The thought of dying enveloped me like a deep, dark cloud. I remember hearing Mount St. Helens when it exploded in the early 1980s. I was in Eugene, Ore., at the time, and I heard it from 350 miles away. It sounded like a sonic boom. However, my body knows how natural disasters sound and feel, even if it hasn't experienced them. Instinctively, my body knew that the three loud booms came from a volcano, and it was deeply attentive, concerned and serious. Learning I had cancer felt like that.

 

I have been very involved in spiritual study, meditation and personal growth for over 35 years, and I am not afraid of death. What struck me when I learned that I might die was the realization that I hadn't been living enough. I was OK with death, but how did I feel about life? I was seriously humbled and saddened by the fact that I hadn't enjoyed the life that I had lived as much as I could have. I coach people on how to find true joy, and had done work on this myself, but I needed to take this quest to a new level of importance. I needed to find new reasons to live.

 

What do I love about life? That was the question that I needed to answer so that I could create more life with those things in it. I looked within and searched my past and realized that I love nature and being in it. I love being with my husband and close friends. I love loving my daughter and son-in-law – being with them and certain family members and friends. I love to write. I really do. I love to make people laugh and love seeing people change and grow. I love gardening, biking, dancing, music. The list goes on, and I keep adding to it. I pay attention to what I love and what I don't. I began making more room in my life for these things.

 

At the same time, I immediately began to cull the things I did not like in my life – sort of like a closet cleaning on a grand scale. I realized that I don't like to rush. I needed to slow down in order to be happy. I didn't respond to all e-mails or answer all phone calls. I began to eat foods that I really wanted and were good for me – when I wanted them. I stopped talking to certain people who were draining me. I refused to engage in the unproductive processing of issues with people or to argue with them. I decided to no longer take on new graphics clients and focus on my coaching. I decided I needed to stop working as hard. It was killing me. I stopped taking on other people's problems (even if they thought they were my problems too). No problem holds weight when life and death are on the table. Perspective is golden and ensures that the proper amount of time is spent in the right places.

 

I gained even more perspective about this when I spoke with my friend Elizabeth, who also has cancer. She's been dealing with it for a year and called to see how I was doing and to support me. I listened as she gave words of wisdom based upon her experience. Then, halfway through the conversation, she said, "I'm now facing the decision of whether to prolong my life with more chemotherapy or accept a shorter life without." A hush filled my being as she said that, and all of my Grade 1 cancer concerns took a step down. I was creating a life. Not everyone has that luxury.

 

It's all about present time. I've known this and taught it, and now I have to live it to a higher degree. Living in the present is so important when death is close at hand (and it always is, whether we know it or not). If I allowed myself to worry about surgery, chemotherapy, death … I would miss the present moment that I had. I might be walking outdoors and miss the feel of the sun on my body and the soft breeze floating through the trees. I might not notice the love in my heart and appreciate fully those who were so supportive and wonderful to me. I might not learn from my experiences and take advantage of the amazing opportunity I'd been given to grow and evolve. Worry was a waste of time. In order to choose life, I had to choose it in the present and with every moment. Being here, present, and appreciating each moment is the only way to keep death at bay.

 

Next blog: Help, I need to know what's going on and what to do.

 

Deborah Hill is author of Unlimited Life: Limiting Beliefs and Belief Busting Power Truths and The Writings of the Masters: Enlightening Lessons for Everyday Life. She also writes PINK's Manage Yourself Blog. Visit yourintuitivelife.com for more on Hill.

To comment on this blog, e-mail blog@pinkmagazine.com and enter "Breast Cancer" in the subject line.

. . . . . . . . . .

 

 

I LOVE YOU ALL. I CAN'T DEAL WITH YOU. NOW GO AWAY.

Posted on September 2, 2008

 

Day 2 after discovering I had breast cancer, and I was already shifting dramatically.

 

Immediate Shift 1: I became significantly more compassionate toward others. I realized how difficult it is to face a life-and-death situation. My eyes and heart were opened a bit more as to how it must feel to experience illness, poverty or severe hardship. Conversely, I had a very short fuse. I'd be skimming along fine, then someone would make a negative comment and I'd be in tears or angry. Shortly I was back to coping and appearing "fine." I had no energy to process with others, to argue or to fight at all. I had a very low negativity tolerance. I pulled out my "cancer card" and said, "I can't deal with that now. You'll just have to take care of it yourself." And it was true. While I was very compassionate toward others, I had no tolerance for hearing about others' problems. I was in emotional and stress overload.

 

Immediate Shift 2: Little "problems" no longer mattered. I quickly learned how to say, "That is not really important. I can let that one go." Stuff that really bothered me before was no longer a problem. I began to drive slower. I realized that nothing really matters except getting healthy, being close and available to those I love and who love me, doing what I love, enjoying life and taking care of myself.

 

I learned how to tell people about my breast cancer. I stopped blurting out, "I have breast cancer." I was adjusting to the situation, but no one else seemed to be. I forgot what a big shock the "C" word was. I realized I needed to give a lead-in like, "I've had some serious challenges." Or, "I have a health situation." It lessened the shock.

 

Notes, phone calls and cards began to pour in. I was amazed. I didn't realize how much I meant to people. I had apparently grossly undervalued my own worth (not surprising to them). Friends who were too busy suddenly became available. People began to sign e-mails with "I love you" instead of "Best" or "Ciao." These supportive and comforting e-mails and phone calls buoyed me up and gave me hope. I especially appreciated the e-mails and cards. I was so busy with cancer stuff that I didn't have time to really talk long to friends, if at all.

 

I signed up for a remarkable website: CaringBridge.com. This free site is available to those who have a serious illness and want to communicate efficiently with those who love them. I created my own page on the site, which helped tremendously with friend and family communications and notifications. I often go to the site and reread the wonderful notes that people have written in the guestbook.

 

The responses of others to my telling them about my cancer taught me how to relate to others in this type of situation.

 

Do:

  • Tell the person how much you care about her.
  • Talk in a positive, calm and supportive voice.
  • Tell her how sorry you feel that she's going through this.
  • Let her know that you have total faith in her, and tell her about her strengths as you see them.
  • Tell her how you see her coming out better on the other side.
  • Tell stories about people you know who have done well in this situation.
  • Ask how you can be of help.

On the flip side, Don't:

 

  • Yell, "OH MY GOD. THAT'S HORRIBLE. HOW TERRIBLE." Leave the emotional drama under your internal rug.
  • Tell the person what she should do.
  • Recount horror stories about others (or you) in a similar situation.
  • Compare your experience of injuries or illnesses with hers, unless yours was life-threatening.
  • Expect the person to call you back for a while, unless you're immediate family, a very close friend or someone calling about her work or medical care. If you do get a call, don't expect it to be long and drawn out. Nothing personal. She's just very busy and can't talk to everyone.
  • Ask for any favors or tasks to be done.
  • Expect the person to remember what's happening in your life, or be able to recount all (or any) of the facts of your conversation.

 

Things that are working for me: Meditation, exercise, sharing my feelings with my husband and those close to me, and staying in present time.

 

Next time: Why I want to live, and how to make this happen.

 

Deborah Hill is author of Unlimited Life: Limiting Beliefs and Belief Busting Power Truths and The Writings of the Masters: Enlightening Lessons for Everyday Life. She also writes PINK's Manage Yourself Blog. Visit yourintuitivelife.com for more on Hill.

To comment on this blog, e-mail blog@pinkmagazine.com and enter "Breast Cancer" in the subject line.

. . . . . . . . . .

 

I KNEW IT. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. I HAVE CANCER.
Posted on August 13, 2008

 

July 1: Diagnosis day. Was the lump in my breast actually cancer? I would find out at my doctor's appointment, scheduled for 3 p.m., and my adrenaline was pumping. It felt like the molecules in my body were vibrating at light speed. I was buzzing. I lost my appetite (though ironically, it took a life and death situation to quickly lose my lifelong weight worries). I focused on busywork and simple tasks in order to keep my mind occupied. I rode the stationary bike while watching TV. I did whatever I could to avoid thinking about the fact that my life might change at 3 p.m.

 

2 p.m.: The doctor's office called to move the appointment back an hour. Patience. Patience.

 

4 p.m.: We arrived only to be told that the doctor was very busy and it would be an hour's wait. Patience faltered and crashed. I couldn't wait in the office staring at the walls, waiting to find out if I had cancer. I told the doctor's assistant to call me on my cell phone when she was ready for me. My husband, Dave, and I paced the halls (actually, he followed me as I paced), sat on a sunny bench, paced some more. I was a basket case. He was frustrated and troubled, not knowing how to help me – upset but trying to be supportive and brave.

 

Finally I was gowned in the cold treatment room and the doctor arrived. She didn't look happy. Not a good sign. She said a few things and then the pronouncement. I remember hearing her tell me that I had invasive cancer, but I don't remember her words. I do remember her sad face and the way she had to look down as she told me. She went on and on, telling me what we'd do next and what the alternatives were. It felt like a part of me was listening but another part was incomprehensively watching the words flowing out of her mouth. "Cancer. I have cancer," it kept saying. I kept asking her to repeat parts of paragraphs that were lost to me. She did. Treatment options were given and evaluated. I at once felt doomed, and yet there was this take-charge part of me that kept asking the right questions and making decisions. Who was this woman? Thank heaven for her. I began to feel very impressed with me.

 

Within 15 minutes it was all laid out. I had grade 1 cancer (at this point). We didn't know how far it had spread. I would need tests to determine if I had cancer in other parts of my body. I'd meet with a plastic surgeon and would have a bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction. I would lose my breasts – both of them. Somehow, I seemed to accept this. I was calm on the outside. I talked reasonably and was resolved to make the best of the situation. My molecules? They were still moving at light speed – an incessant internal hum, like living in a wind tunnel.

 

Immediate shift one: Dave and I walked out of the doctor's office shocked, very sobered, but remarkably closer. We were very much in love before and our intimacy has always run very deep. But suddenly we were deeper, closer and more "in this together." My focus became (and remained for three weeks) finding the best treatment and tackling this as best as I could. He focused on supporting me, finding it all tougher than he realized it would be. The mate has a rough time. He (or she) is faced with losing the person he loves. He is now the support person and usually hasn't been trained for this job. He wants to fix me but can't. He feels many emotions and has many needs, but has to act his best to support me. I think it's sometimes tougher to be a support person than to be the person who's ill. It requires heroic strength, love and patience. Support people need support people too.

 

Dave and I decided to grow from this situation (as if we had a choice). We're not going to just make it. We will make our lives better, and we will be stronger. Looking back, I see that we were remarkable in our outlook at the time, but growth was inevitable. Cancer is one of those sink-or-swim situations, and most learn to swim. There isn't much choice but to deal with it and change.

 

We vowed to do the following to make it through these times:

1. Stay positive.

2. Keep our sense of humor and stay as light as possible.

 

We met with a plastic surgeon two days later and were given more information, more diagrams and photos. Everything was going smoothly until he said, "Then three weeks after that we create new nipples for you." WHAT? New nipples? No one said anything about losing my nipples. No feeling? No change in how they look when I'm turned on? Painted-on nipples? I felt I could live without the internal stuff of my breast but not the nipples. I begged and pleaded and he gave alternatives that included the nipples, if the surgeon agreed. It was a little something I could hold on to, and it got me through the night – until the surgeon nixed the idea. She says that the nipples are the beginning point of the mammary glands, and the gland is where most cancer starts. I need to prevent further cancer, and keeping the nipples is not a sensible option.

 

I've learned that the first two to three weeks after hearing about the cancer are often the craziest and most stressful. My life instantly became more intense and busier than I'd ever imagined (and I was an insanely busy person before). I was steadily but franticly moving. People had to be called, doctor appointments had to be scheduled, tests had to be taken, plans had to change, finances had to be assessed. I needed to know all I could about my situation and the alternatives. I was glued to the Internet in a research mission that rivaled the writing of my master's thesis. I was literally on the phone or online for at least 10 to 12 hours a day for two weeks. My ears hurt from phone listening, and by day four they demanded a day off. I shunned the phone on that day and turned it over to my husband. Meanwhile, I was trying to do some work. I was barely succeeding.

 

I was constantly in triage mode. My priorities were: 1. Go to bathroom when needed. 2. Drink water (I was so thirsty). 3. Answer the phone, especially if it's the doctor's office. 4. Find information in books and online.

 

Some days I was at the computer, still in my pajamas with unbrushed teeth at 2 p.m. I thought I was functioning well and coping. It all seemed to be going well until night came and I couldn't sleep. I didn't want to sleep. I was moving too fast internally and had too much to do. Light-speed molecules do not allow sleep. For the first time in my life I resorted to sleeping pills.

 

Realization: Not every task has to be done right now. I can put things off. I must put things off, so it must be OK. Some tasks can be done later. Some dreams can be stretched. I can let life unfold. Some things will fall away. These things aren't important. What's important is that I stay centered and calm and do not rush. I don't have to run through life. I don't have to do it all. Not now.

 

Next time: What really matters, and how to be there for someone who's seriously ill.

Deborah Hill is author of Unlimited Life: Limiting Beliefs and Belief Busting Power Truths and The Writings of the Masters: Enlightening Lessons for Everyday Life. She also writes PINK's Manage Yourself Blog. Visit yourintuitivelife.com for more on Hill.

To comment on this blog, e-mail blog@pinkmagazine.com and enter "Breast Cancer" in the subject line.

. . . . . . . . . .

THE MOMENT MY LIFE CHANGED
Posted on July 23, 2008

 

I was in the best mood possible – happy, excited, feeling in love with my husband, and blessed. It was Tuesday night, June 24, 2008, and my husband, Dave, and I had just returned home from an incredible Chicago and Doobie Brothers concert at an outdoor amphitheater. It was late and I was tired, though elated. I immediately lay down on the bed, face up, and for some reason placed my right hand on my left breast (which I don't normally do) – and shock. There it was: a big lump.

 

I used to be a nurse midwife and have felt thousands of breasts. I knew this was not normal. Elation sank and disappeared like a rock in a well. I focused on only one, all-encompassing thing. I had a mass. And I said it out loud to my husband frankly, directly, like a person speaking through a PA system: "I have a lump in my breast." Somewhere in my head, conflicting thoughts were going on: "Shouldn't you have said that in a nicer way? You'll worry him," countered with, "To hell with it, it's happening, and I have to take care of me now. He'll have to deal with it." And he did, quite well.

 

This was the beginning of my breast cancer experience and the start of the period of accelerated personal growth that this experience has afforded me. Though I don't recommend this path to anyone, you can't beat a life-threatening illness for giving you the opportunity to grow and change.

 

With my announcement to my husband, I'd begun to learn to take care of me and not be responsible for how others handle themselves. I've been so used to worrying about how I say things – sugar-coating my words, considering others' needs before my own. I'd forgotten how to directly state my needs and thoughts, without worrying about how others would take it. Or so I thought.

 

One need became the most important in my life. I needed to know what that lump was. Thoughts were flying through my head – thoughts of dying, chemotherapy, losing my breasts, losing my hair (interesting that hair loss fears stood in line with thoughts of death). I was in shock. I was in "fight or flight mode."

 

My body did not sleep. Its only focus was to take care of the lump. It was – I was – in survival mode.

 

The next morning nothing but taking care of the lump mattered. I didn't think about work, engagements – nothing but "I have to get this taken care of!" I began calling breast clinics in Atlanta, and to my horror was told that the soonest any of them could get me in was 10 days. Yes, 10 days of waiting and wondering if I had breast cancer.

 

Many of the clinics (apparently the "best" in the city) have "switchboard" receptionists who first take your information and plug you into their computers before even asking about you. Me: "Hello. My name is Deborah Hill, and I have a lump in my breast. I need to see a doctor." Them: "Your name, please? Your date of birth? …" My head is saying, "What? Is this a doctor's office or the phone company?"

 

The receptionist looked at a list of criteria for emergency appointments, and I didn't qualify. No, they will not let me talk to anyone else. No, they won't reconsider. "Sorry, this is the best I can do. I have rules I have to follow." Ugh. I was desperate, panicked and incredulous that they would treat me so coldly. After a pause she said, "When can you come in on that day?" I told her I'd find another doctor, and she was actually very surprised. Apparently, many of the women in Atlanta go along with the "10-day-later appointment" thing. No contact, no one to talk to, shocked and fearful – just live with it for 10 days!

 

As a medically educated practitioner, I knew that the risk of breast cancer spreading significantly more in the next 10 days was low. But my "other voice" decided that it was a rapidly growing mass that would take over my entire body in that time period. The prevalent attitude in the medical field seems to be that 10 days won't make a difference in the progression of the disease. But, hey, what about my head, my emotions, my psyche? I couldn't wait 10 days. I thought I'd go insane.

 

Through a doctor friend's recommendation I found a surgeon who would see me the next day. Panic mode continued. I knew I'd done all I could do to deal with the situation at that time. I had an appointment. Now I had to calm myself down so I could live through the next day in the best way possible.

 

First, I meditated … in short spurts. Thank goodness I'd practiced this for years. I realized it would have been tough to learn meditation in crisis mode. It helped tremendously. I constantly released thoughts about dying and fears. "Yes, mind. I love you. Let's not think about that right now. OK? Hey, look over there." It was like talking to a whining toddler.

 

My priorities at this time were (and still are):

 

Goal 1: Stay in present time. In present time I feel fine. I don't know if I have cancer. I don't know the future. Stay focused on right now. Right now I'm fine.

 

Goal 2: Stay positive. Do not think about future pain. I do believe that this is a lesson I'm working through, and I will handle it. In fact, I can even read about this in my own book: Power Truth 1: You can handle anything that's on your path!

 

Goal 3: Do not feel sorry for myself. Again, stay in present time. It's impossible to feel sorry for myself if I stay in present time. Feeling sorry for myself requires that I look at the past – at all my hopes, dreams, plans before "L" (lump) day – things that are irrelevant in present time.

 

I exercised at the health club. Thank goodness for exercise. For me, it's one of the most effective panaceas.

 

I forced myself to work but got distracted a lot. I did weird things like make a list for my husband of what I would need in the hospital. I thought, "What if I go to the doctor's office and they want to do immediate surgery? He'll be upset and panicking too. He won't know what to bring. And I'll need my stuff." I thought I was being very rational and in control. Huh? The next lesson had begun, involving the need to be in control. While it's OK and even comforting to do things that make me feel in control, the truth is, these acts are just "comfort food." Life happens. The only thing I can (hopefully) control is how I respond to what is happening.

 

Stay tuned for my next blog: Is this really happening? Cancer?

 

Lessons I've learned so far:

 

1. Clearly state what I need, what I want and what I think. I'm not responsible for anyone else's reaction to me.

 

2. Most people are stronger than I think. Let them have their own experience. Don't micromanage others.

 

3. I can't control everything and everyone around me; I can adjust how I respond to them.

 

Things that are working for me: meditation, exercise, sharing my feelings with my husband and those close to me, and staying in present time.

 

Deborah Hill is author of Unlimited Life: Limiting Beliefs and Belief Busting Power Truths and The Writings of the Masters: Enlightening Lessons for Everyday Life. She also writes PINK's Manage Yourself Blog. Visit yourintuitivelife.com for more on Hill.

To comment on this blog, e-mail blog@pinkmagazine.com and enter "Breast Cancer" in the subject line.