It was one of those perfect spring days. I sat listening to the after-school banter surrounding my two daughters. Lily, a high school junior, was practicing her lines as Lydia for her school play, “Pride and Prejudice.” Becca, preparing for her eighth-grade graduation, contemplated dresses.
Innocently, I picked up the phone to hear, “Jeni, this is your doctor. You have breast cancer.”
It felt like the sun that once illuminated our home vanished. Within one week I underwent surgery and was diagnosed with Stage 2b; grade 3, Her2+, Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. I had breast cancer.
At the first meeting with my oncologist, I lay on the bed, weary and overwhelmed, my voice reduced to a whisper, as my husband inquired, “Will Jeni receive Herceptin?” Her reply that I did not meet the clinical trial criteria meant little to me then, but to my husband who had done the research, it was devastating. Without the benefit of this drug, I would likely relapse from the disease and be taken by it in a few short years. My husband left our first appointment preparing himself for a future as a single father.
I began a treatment of chemotherapy followed by radiation. Exhausted, I wept privately as the side effects were overwhelming. Tired, achy and nauseous, I could no longer recall life in a well body. Bald, thin and ashen, each glance at my reflection reminded me with fresh pain that I was no longer myself. I had cancer.
Upon the conclusion of my chemo, I received the news that the drug my husband had longed for, Herceptin, was now available to me. I was beginning to be less anxious about my uncertain future, tearfully asking my husband less often if he thought I was going to die.
March 24 marked 11 years since receiving the news that I had breast cancer. To those who meet me today, there is no evidence of the peril I faced. How is it that I live, breath and enjoy life? Why was I given the chance to see graduations, a wedding and now a soon-to-arrive grandson, when for so many others with the same or a more favorable initial diagnosis, the battle is never won? While there are no answers to my questions, this I do know: great minds are seeking the answers to those and many other questions that perplex those affected by cancer. They work feverishly to better diagnose, treat and even cure the disease.
I once thought that cancer would forever change me — that I could no longer be the woman that I once was. I suppose I was right. I am changed. But not in the way I once envisioned. Moments before picking up the phone that day in spring, I was blissfully naive to a world of hushed discussions between care team members, the weighing of treatment options, of side effects and hair loss. But I also was naive to the world of cancer research, the kindness of oncology staff, and the powerful necessity of clinical trials to which I owe my life. There is a saying that once you are exposed to a part of the world, to an injustice or need, that you can no longer ignore it. You have seen and thus you are now responsible.
I now have the great honor of accessing that sense of responsibility in my job each day. I consider it a great privilege to contribute in any way — no matter how small — to the remarkable work being done at EMMC Cancer Care to stop the vicious predator that is cancer.
Cancer has changed me. The fear it once instilled has been replaced with hope, exponentially more potent; the monotony of daily tasks has been renewed with deep appreciation and wonder; and the dread of the future has been overwhelmed by a belief in the brilliant, compassionate minds that seek relentlessly to find a cure.
I have often said that research brings tomorrow’s hope to today’s patient; I will continue as long as I have breath to work for research so that others will, like me, be able to say, “I had cancer, and it no longer has me.”
Jenifer Lloyd has served as a philanthropy officer for the EMHS Foundation since 2010 with primary responsibility to EMMC Cancer Care. She lives in Hampden.