What I remember most about hearing the diagnosis of cancer was the surreal feeling that came over me. Once I finally heard the doctor say cancer, my mind immediately shut down. Now I know that this is something that happens to almost everyone when first diagnosed. Thats when a second set of ears becomes critical. Whatever I thought I heard the doctor say was almost opposite of what Jerry really heard the doctor say. It was almost like an out-of-body experience. It was eerie. It was as if I were looking down at a scene from a play.

As I prepared for my mastectomy surgery, random thoughts kept running through my head. If they remove my breast, what will I put in my bra when I leave the hospital? What will the surgical scar be like? Will I be the same person I was before? So many questions and so few answers. In those days, very few doctors recognized the importance of the psychosocial effects of breast cancer.

The mind/body connection was just beginning to surface along with books written by Dr. Bernie Siegel and Dr. Carl Siminton. The two were among the first to recognize that you really cant separate the mind from the body. And what a blessing it was to be able to read and learn from these books that there is life after cancer.

I became like a human sponge, soaking up every piece of information I could lay my hands on. There was no information superhighway in 1986. I didnt even know anyone who had had breast cancer. Cancer was still The Big C back then. Now I know that the C stands for courage, compassion and conquest. We become Amazon warrior women. We are ready to stand our ground against this faceless enemy.

The date was May 22, 1986. The week of Mothers Day. Ironically, it was the week I had decided to start playing bass again and was looking forward to working with a newly put together big band. Little did I know that I would never play bass professionally again. It wasnt the breast cancer that forced me to stop playing, I just wasnt the same person I was before. My priorities changed instantly. I said goodbye to those dreams at the same time I said goodbye to my breast.

The surgery went smoothly but then my blood counts dropped dramatically. I needed a blood transfusion and was given three units of blood. It was just about the time hospitals started checking blood to make sure it was safe. AIDS loomed on the horizon. I think the blood transfusions scared my family more than the cancer did. How did they know the blood was safe? Who had checked it?

Just as the last drop of blood was going through the IV, a young nurse came in and said, Oh icky, blood. None of us who work here would have a blood transfusion. I felt the hair stand up on the back on my neck as I quickly asked her about her concerns. Was it fear of AIDS?

She said, Oh its not just AIDS, its hepatitis and all the other little buggers that scare us. I was too shocked to say anything as I felt the cold chill of fear creep through my beat up body. What else might I be facing in the future?

During the week I spent in the hospital (yes, this was definitely before managed care), I found out that there were very few answers to my questions. I remember a lovely volunteer who tried to cheer me up when she visited. She was about 75, an avid golfer and a mother of 10 children. She had a tiny body with tiny breasts. She said I could be just like her and I thought not likely. I found it depressing. Even though she meant well, I was 50, had never had children of my own, was an avid tennis player and had been left with one humongous breast that was slowly creeping toward my kneecap. If someone had told me I could commit suicide by shooting myself two inches below my left breast, I would have shot off my kneecap.

Spring was in the air the day I left the hospital. You could smell blooming flowers everywhere. Beautiful impatiens and begonias lined the streets along with blooming crepe myrtle trees. Jerry had gone out and traded our car in for a cherry red Chrysler New Yorker just to make my homecoming special. I sat on the passenger side clutching my purse to my chest, feeling like everyone was staring at me minus a breast. I couldnt wait to get inside the house.

My mother and sister were staying with us to help out. Friends were popping in and out of the house. The phone was ringing off the hook. Relatives from everywhere were coming out of every nook and cranny to pull together in a tight knit family circle. I remember my late Uncle Archie calling me to ask if I wanted him to tell me a story just like he did when I was a child and I was afraid because my father was dying from a heart disease.

Shortly after that, the big crash came. Jerry was at work and my family had gone back to South Florida. I was alone in the house for the first time since my surgery and I said, Oh my god! I have cancer and I could die. After giving way to the tears that had been pent up, I began to think about my life, about the positives and the negatives. I found the positives far outweighed the negatives. I was the same person I was before. I could sure save a lot of money on haircuts, thanks to chemo, and I wouldnt have to tweeze my eyebrows or shave my legs for a year. What a plus!