I Beat Colon Cancer, but Not by Myself

On a warm summer day, my husband, Nick, and I were giggling like two high school kids about something I can't remember now. It doesn't really matter, because we were just passing the time until the doctor who had performed my colonoscopy returned.

A somber-looking man dressed in scrubs entered our room. His solemn demeanor remained constant as he stared at me and said, "I am sorry to tell you, but we found a fist-sized tumor in your sigmoid colon and it's malignant…"

The colors in the room changed. It was as if a pink film tinted my eyes.

Colon cancer.

From that moment, the room and the world looked completely different.

My anesthesia-induced giggliness was gone instantly, replaced with dread, knowingness and fear.

"So, you're saying I have cancer?" I replied to the doctor. He nodded yes.

Then, as tears began to well up in our eyes—mine and Nick's—the doctor quickly excused himself from the room. We were left alone with the uncertainty of such a dire diagnosis, or the Big C, as I called it.

On the ride home, I made a decision: No matter the prognosis, I would kick cancer's butt!

Even so, I was plagued by another decision I had to make: to go public or not with my battle. I chose yes. With the help of Facebook, I was able to share my stage 2A diagnosis—and, more importantly, my intention to heal—with a multitude of people.

That Facebook message wound up being cathartic for me. By going public with my diagnosis, I realized being transparent would provide a step toward healing on many levels. It was a short, simple statement: "I have the Big C and I intend to beat this foreign disease."

The post had to be short because I knew little to nothing about the disease prior to my diagnosis. The overwhelming response from the simple post blew my mind. Of all my previous status updates until that day, July 24, 2015—I was 47—I had never received such a response.

The biggest surprise on my cancer journey was the help that emerged from the unlikeliest places. We lived far away from our family base and didn't live among a big support group. As our friends and family heard the news from a distance, they sent their support in ways that worked for each of them.

We also developed deeper relationships with people we had only chatted with on social media previously, including my husband's half-sister. He barely knew her, but she made it a point to visit us twice that year, flying in from out of state, as did his cousin. My sorority, Sigma Phi Omega, showed up in a big way, sending me gifts almost every day for the first six months, and beyond, of my treatments. Our children's school set up a yearlong weekly food delivery for the family and went the extra mile to give gifts to our kids during the holidays.

The biggest shock came when the people we just assumed would be there for us, including some of our extended family and close friends, weren't. We asked for their help, but for various reasons were denied. That was challenging to work through. Yet my intention to stay positive and focused on my healing journey remained undeterred.

While I was recovering from six weeks of oral chemotherapy plus 33 radiation treatments, my daughter and neighbors stepped up and came to my rescue. They helped me get dressed and watched our children when I was rushed by ambulance for a lifesaving surgery necessitated by a bowel obstruction and perforation from the initial treatments.

My realization that "no man is an island" led to a skill: asking for help. While the act seems simple, it's something I was unaccustomed to doing. As a mom and wife, I was used to being a helper. So to suddenly be in the position of being helped was at times uncomfortable.

A community grew around us and came to include cancer and ostomy organizations such as Fight Colorectal Cancer (FightCRC), United Ostomy Associations of America (UOAA), and Facebook and Instagram cancer and ostomy groups. Throughout the process, I shared my journey, and the outpouring of support was beautiful. Some family members who previously had been unable to help were even moved to step up.

Accepting help became a good move for me. I saw the joy and peace it brought to other people and the support it brought to me and my family.

As I was bedridden by the side effects of treatment, I was unable to take part in my normal parental activities. My husband—we had been married for 17 years at the time—was my biggest supporter. Even though his former job didn't allow him to take time off to be with me during treatments, he insisted on doing everything to help me and showed up for all the kids' school events. Thanks to the support of others, for one night of the week, my husband did not have to worry about cooking or grocery shopping for our family. My community lavished love and support on our family in abundance, from creating a GoFundMe account and care packages to buying plane tickets, flowers and books to arranging food deliveries, cards, calls, texts and more.

Embracing and leaning on the power of such a strong community helped me heal emotionally. Our emotions and mental states are vital in the cancer journey, or with any diagnosis. Being able to share what was happening—the good, the bad, the painful—was transformative for me. We were able to access valuable resources offered by my oncology patient navigator for both family and patient cancer therapy, and cancer art therapy.

All of the incredible support brought to mind the biblical parable of the neighbors who lifted the sick patient through the thatched roof and petitioned Jesus for healing. On the strength and belief of the community alone, the patient was granted healing.

This is a powerful concept to me, because I discovered healing is not only physical. As doctors and care teams tend to the medical/physical healing, an often overlooked component is for the patient to feel heard, valued, loved, cared for and understood as they go through the journey of cancer. Having a strong community empowers the patient and their family to let go of unneeded burdens to create quality time with their family members as they go through treatment.

Now, six years from diagnosis and officially cancer-free, our support team continues to evolve. We have also evolved to support others through my cancer awareness and ostomy advocacy, and by my family doing our best to help other families dealing with this disease.

Community is beyond important when dealing with this disease, and life in general. We are grateful to say, the giggles—no anesthesia needed—have continued and so has the amazing community support.