Liz Wurster: What I learned from cancer

Liz Wurster

Editor’s note: Salisbury native Liz Wurster was diagnosed with breast cancer last year at the age of 32. This is a follow-up to columns she wrote in March and June of 2011. She is the daughter of Jean Wurster and the granddaughter of Doris Miller, both breast cancer survivors.

By Elizabeth Wurster

For the Salisbury Post

Life’s not fair.

At least that’s what my mother used to tell me when my brother would smack me upside the head for being mouthy.

I can’t, in fact, think of a more annoying sentiment for an adult to convey to a child. But now, as an adult, I’d have to say I agree with her.

We have all, whether silently or at the top of our lungs, screamed, “That’s just not fair!”

For me, that truth was epitomized in an unexpected battle I’ve been fighting. It is a battle many of you have personally fought, against an adversary that all of you have undoubtedly been affected by in some way. It is a battle we all fear: the battle with cancer.

After going through a diagnosis process that involved many terrifying twists and turns, I was no longer sure that I had a future to plan for, and if I did it was going to involve paying off tens of thousands of dollars in financial debt.

In the past six months, I’ve made many difficult choices. I chose to have a bilateral mastectomy. It was a decision I did not come to lightly, but my view of the world changed suddenly within the space of three weeks. I chose to undergo chemotherapy after my surgery even though it may mean that I can never have my own biological children. I felt this was preferable to leaving my children without a mother. I chose to go without a wig or a headscarf even though I got quite a few stares, and even a few points and snickers.

I don’t profess to be an expert on life, or cancer, or much of anything, really. But I have learned some things in the past six months, perhaps more than I’ve learned in my entire life. And for some reason, I feel the need to share it:

• Cancer is a fast and sneaky adversary. What with the odds of getting breast cancer at my age being less than half a percent, I was fairly certain that the tiny lump I felt in my breast six months ago was nothing to worry about.

I was wrong.

My cancer was a particularly aggressive type of cancer, which is why I opted for chemotherapy, even though I caught it early and it hadn’t yet spread to my lymph nodes. There is still the possibility that some determined rogue cells weaseled their way into my blood stream, and, because I am no longer comforted by favorable statistics, I decided to do everything in my power to increase my chances of survival.

Over the past several months, I have battled my own personal demons regarding what role my lifestyle decisions played in my acquisition of cancer. I have chosen to use the knowledge I have gained not to regret past decisions but rather to make wise, preventative choices about what goes into my body and how I treat it in the future, and I encourage everyone else to do the same. There is no harm in thinking, reading, challenging and enlightening yourself in order to live a long and healthy life. And I can’t help but add, for women far and wide, regardless of your age, there is no reason not to check your breasts regularly. And if you find something, go get it checked out. It just might save your life; I’m walking proof of that.

• Chemotherapy is hard. I am—or was several months ago—young, strong, energetic, and daring, which would perhaps explain why chemotherapy was such a challenge for me: I’m not used to feeling anything less than 100 percent. I’m accustomed to hiking for days at a time, snowboarding in the Colorado Rockies, cliff jumping, scuba diving, and running my tail off on the tennis court.

It has been a shock to my system to feel tired, sickly, unmotivated or disjointed, but I do, sometimes. Often.

I’ve been having terrible nightmares, my gums bleed when I brush my teeth, my brain is constantly shrouded in a “chemo cloud,” my hair has fallen out, I can’t seem to find a single food that I find delicious (aside from caramel, oddly enough), and I’ve had more headaches over the past few months than I’ve probably had in my entire life.

It is difficult to poison your body, but perspectives shift when your life is on the line. I would rather live than be lively right now.

Besides, it is kind of an exploration! What might taste good today? How long can I stare at the wall without calling attention to myself? How well can my best friend shave my head? Sometimes the most important questions we ask ourselves are the ones we never envisioned asking.

And for some reason I find it important to tell everyone out there who might have to have chemotherapy or who knows someone who has had it: it is not easy. (Or at least it wasn’t for me.) Because people have seen me on the tennis court or running around town, they will say things to me like, “Chemo can’t get you down!” And while I really appreciate their positivity, I would like for them to know that it does sometimes get me down, and that’s OK. There are days when I feel like a foreign entity has taken over my bubbly self, and it worries me that people will be disappointed in me because I am not the same vivacious person I once was.

But this leads me to my next realization:

• People are amazing. Throughout this whole experience, there has been one thing of which I have been consistently and poignantly reminded: people have within themselves an incredible capacity for love, empathy, strength and patience. I consider myself blessed to be made aware of the kindness that often lies dormant within the human spirit, even if it did take an unwelcome occasion to bring it out.

Because the people with whom I am close are deep, genuine people, I did not worry about losing them over any of the physical changes I might undergo during this ordeal. However, when I began the process of chemotherapy and I realized that I was not the witty, vibrant person I normally am, I wondered, would they still want to be around me if I am not the same person that they once knew and loved?

Do we still have time and space in our life for people when the very characteristics that drew us to them in the first place have been swallowed up by something bigger—at least temporarily—than themselves? Do we have the courage to find and nurture those aspects of our friends and loved ones when they need it most?

And I must say, the answer I have heard from those around me is a resounding yes. And for that, I am thankful.

• Death is not a four-letter word. The act of survivorship is no picnic. Most of us have enough on our plate with the daily challenges we all face; throwing a debilitating, potentially fatal illness in there can seem like a cruel joke. I have read a great deal of literature celebrating survivorship, and I am fortunate enough to have caught my cancer early enough to hopefully be able to live a long and healthy life.

However, I should be clear. I do not see myself as “stronger than cancer,” nor do I feel that my personality, determination or resilience is superior to the many who fell to cancer before me. I was not spared by God, much as they were not chosen by God to not be spared. I don’t believe I prayed harder than they did.

There was a time during this process when it seemed likely that cancer had spread to other parts of my body. I had a very difficult time coming to terms with the fact that we might no longer be shooting for a cure, but rather treatment that could merely prolong my life. Death did not seem like an option for me, it seemed like the most foreign, inconceivable concept imaginable.

(In our society, we do everything we can to push the thought of death from our minds, and we at times behave hypocritically with regards to it: we extol an afterlife of incomprehensible perfection, but we cling onto life with a desperation that makes dying with dignity a challenging and, at times impossible, feat. Many people won’t speak of death, even if the truth of a situation is staring them in the face, and this launches it to a status in our minds where we can neither confront it nor speak of it openly. Death is the one thing we all have in common; let us treat it with a candor that respects each of our journeys to that point.)

Survivorship is important, indeed, and I admire and respect those who have carried on amid the fear and uncertainty of disease, but I hold in the highest esteem those who faced and overcame the most frightening prospect of all: their own mortality.

• There is hope. Over the past several months, I have been volunteering at the Crisis Assistance Network at Rowan Helping Ministries, interviewing clients in need of financial assistance. I dealt with many people who have been pushed to the limits, whose hope is either fading or already long gone. It has been a powerful experience for me, to know that so many other people feel the same way that I have lately. Unfortunately, there is a sort of comfort in shared misery.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, it was during the only two-month period in my entire life that I’d been without health insurance, and I was told that I probably wouldn’t be able to find health coverage because of it. I felt like there were no options, and I was literally unsure whether live-saving options would be economically feasible for me. In our society, a pre-existing condition is like a scarlet U — uninsurable.

Since the start of my ordeal, I was surprised to find myriad people who are terrified of losing or not qualifying for health insurance because of a pre-existing condition. This kind of fear is something by which individuals living in a country as prosperous and advanced as ours should not be plagued.

I was fortunate enough, through a friend of a friend, to find out about an option called the Pre-Existing Insurance Plan (PCIP), which is in place to protect people with pre-existing conditions from being shut out of the insurance pool. Within North Carolina, there is a federal option with a company called Inclusive Health. I urge anyone who is having difficulty finding insurance because of a pre-existing condition to investigate this option; it made a world of difference for me. In fact, that this information be promulgated to individuals in every corner of society could be the greatest positive to come from a world of negative.

So no, life is not fair. We each, at some time or another, will face injustice, ignorance, discrimination, indifference, even cruelty.

But we are not helpless in our pursuits. We have choices: in the battles we fight, the friends we touch, the compassion we render, the beliefs we uphold, and the love we give.

It is in taking control of these choices that we learn that while life’s not fair, it’s still worth living.