Note: Samira K. Beckwith, is President and CEO Hope HealthCare Services

We cannot always choose what happens to us in life. However, we can choose how we will respond, and focus on what we can do. Each of us has lessons to be learned and a story to tell. My story is about how I learned to make lemonade out of lemons and how to find a silver lining to the dark cloud!

Have you ever known someone who thought life was unfair simply because they got something they didn’t want for their birthday?  On my 49th birthday, I was given the news that I had breast cancer!

My parents immigrated to America, seeking a higher quality of life. Growing up, I was richly rewarded by their sacrifices. I cherished their ideals. Now, on the brink of 50 with a type of cancer that women dread, I endured a double mastectomy. My parents’ gift of courage and optimism was one of the three bonds holding my life together. The other two: my family and close friends, and my career commitment to help others.

Ironically, two years before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I learned that the local chapter of Partners for Breast Cancer Care lacked the funding it needed for office space and was struggling to serve the community. In spite of the ongoing growth and expansion of Hope Hospice and our own need for space, I made the decision to give the breast cancer group two offices within the hospice facility, furnished with utilities, where they reside to this day. Retired Partners Interim Executive Director Pat Rebsamen says the program would not exist today if that decision had not been made. According to Pat, “many, many lives have been saved because of this gift.”

Since I did this favor for the Partners in Breast Cancer Care, shouldn’t I have been spared the disease? Where’s the good karma? As my oncologist told me in 1976, scientific studies have proven that life is not fair, and no one can promise you a rose garden.  Through his inspiring book, I got a “second opinion” from Rabbi Harold Kushner: yes, Bad Things do Happen to Good People.

There is more to the story. In the early seventies, when I was a graduate student at The Ohio State University, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease.

Over the next three years, there were a lot of college things that I would not be doing: staying up late studying at the library; mingling at the Student Union Building; dancing. Instead, I would be hanging out with my new friends – fellow cancer patients at the local hospital, clinics and doctors’ offices.

Hearing the words, “Its cancer,” always comes as a shock. The good news, though, is that you have plenty of time to think and the bad news is, you have plenty of time to think. I decided to find what could be positive in a situation like this. I remembered the adage — “If someone gives you lemons—Make Lemonade, or a pie.”

Sadly, most in my cancer “club” were not as lucky in the battle against hopelessness. Medical practice at the time was not advanced in regard to pain control, symptom management – and empathy. No matter how much it hurt, you could not have your pain medication until the appointed hour. Most staff members were uncomfortable talking about cancer, treatments and feelings. That was when I made a promise to myself to use my experience to help others live a better life, even during serious illness or in the final chapter. That promise became the foundation of my career.

Upon graduation, I became a social worker, which led to my 30-year commitment to improving care for people with serious illness. In the last 18 years in my role as President and CEO of Hope HealthCare Services, I have held the hands of cancer patients, given them support, and testified before a committee of the US Congress on the need for health care reform. I think about Gilda Radner saying “It’s always something.”  I have taken every opportunity to share my message with everyone: There is Hope.

Note: Marci Sanders is Director of Operations  forThe Shelter for Abused Women & Children in Naples.

It’s September, 1998.  I’ve had two surgeries to remove my breasts, and I’ve had four months of chemotherapy.

Now I’m lying on this hard table with a heavy lead vest over my chest and a huge piece of machinery moving over me.  The technicians are watching from another room with thickened lead walls.  This radiation is supposed to kill any cancer cells remaining in my breast tissue that haven’t been removed by surgery or poisoned by the chemo drugs.  If radiation is so deadly, how can my body handle it?

This thought has bothered me since I began my 30 rounds of radiation, so I asked the Radiation Oncologist.  With this simplified explanation, I began to think of radiation as the good Pac-Man knocking out my bad cancer cells.

The world is full of radiation.  We’re exposed to it everyday.  Our cells have a natural enzyme that fights off the radiation and allows them to live normally.  Cancer cells don’t have that enzyme, so they are susceptible to radiation.  The radiation zaps them just like Pac-Man swallows up ghosts. The radiation bumps and bruises the normal cells, but they recover in 24 hours.  They just need a little rest.  That’s why radiation treatments make you so tired and why they can only be given once in 24 hours.

Now as I watch that big piece of machinery passing over me, I think of the battle going on within my cells.  And I know that the cancer cells will lose, and my good cells will be coming back stronger than ever.

Note: Mary Kay Peterson, MD, Director of Women’s Imaging, Radiology Regional Center

My day didn’t begin on Monday, it started with a phone call from the oncologist on Saturday afternoon.  A friend has a breast lump…those frightening words, the unspeakable word “cancer” hanging in the back of our minds. So when Monday morning begins at 5 a.m., I send off an e-mail to the chief scheduler to touch base by phone with me when she arrives at the office, so we can get the patient squeezed into today’s schedule, of course, allowing for drive time from the other side of the state, the patient wants to be cared for in a familiar setting with people she knows. As expected, alligator alley traffic backs up, the patient arrives when she can, and we just work her into the schedule.

When I arrive at the office, a patient is scheduled to have a wire placed as localization of an abnormal area of the breast. She’ll then head to the operating room where her breast surgeon will use the wire to guide her hands to the abnormality, then remove the lesion. The lesion is far back in the breast, and not easily accessible. After a significant time positioning the patient, some free-hand triangulation by myself, and divine intervention, the lesion is successfully localized, and with tears of appreciation, the patient heads to the hospital for surgery. A wish her well, and relay positive thoughts as I walk away.

In the meantime, due to the unexpected difficulty in performing the localization, the screening mammograms are waiting to be read, and the diagnostic patients are ready to be seen. The first two patients are cancer survivors, and each hugs me and repeatedly thanks me as I tell them that their mammogram this year was normal.  One of the patient’s has her husband with her.  He conveys to me that this is their 50 wedding anniversary this month, and this was the best news they could get. He holds his wife as he speaks, and his eyes are glassy with love.  Everyone in the room, from myself to the mammography assistants, have smiles on our faces, and our hearts are filled with joy to share this intimate moment with this couple.

The day busily continues with diagnostic patients, and rolls unseamlessly into the afternoon biopsies. The first patient is a 41 year old with an obvious breast cancer by mammogram and ultrasound. The biopsy goes well.  We chat about our children, starting school, after-school care, etc. Her life mirrors my own…she is so young herself with very young children relying on her. She knows it’s cancer, and at the end of the procedure, asks me about the near future and what to expect. I convey how glad I am that she did her self breast exam and came for her annual mammogram. I let her know that although there will be challenges ahead, she will be fine. I help to instill confidence in her caregivers, so she will remain positive and her body heals well.  I take her hand and look into her eyes, so she feels my sincerity.

The next patient is a 180 degree different. She is angry her cancer has recurred. She is frustrated with the anticipation that she will have to undergo radiation and chemotherapy again. She is short with the front desk staff, abrupt with the technologist, and frowning when I walk into the room. The procedure itself barely took 15 minutes. The pertinent time was spent trying to calm the patient, make a good connection, develop the repore necessary for her to manage her emotions to allow us to care for her. Good communication with the patient is paramount, and most of the time accomplished.  Fortunately, when this task was successful, the tears of fear poured out of the patient, and built-up anxiety was released. The biopsy went well.

Mammograms read, biopsies done, urgent add-on at 4:15 p.m. — 32 year old female with a breast infection “not going away with antibiotic treatment”.  Mammogram and ultrasound performed, physical exam while scanning, and the diagnosis, along with the history is clear to me.  My stomach turns knowing the severity of what I see on the computer screen. This patient has advanced inflammatory breast cancer,  skin thickening, breast twice the size of the other side, swollen involved lymph nodes of her armpit.  An aggressive cancer that will challenging to treat.  As I tell the patient I want to make phone calls to get her seen by a surgeon immediately, she says she needs to get someone to get her children from school, and needs to make a call.  When i walk away, I do the same, make the appropriate phone calls to the referring primary care physician, the requested breast surgeon, and go back to the patient.  Appointments, phone numbers, and a hug, the patient is on her way.

I strive for a quiet drive home, regrouping before I meet my own family…to make dinner, start homework, showers, projects, etc.  I pray for the patients I’ve seen during the day, for peace in my own heart to do the best I can for them, and calm to separate it from my own personal life.  However, the unreturned phone calls from the day loom.  So, I return as many of them as I head home.  When I read the emails asking for commitment to speak or participate in a fundraiser, I think about the newly-diagnosed and the longtime survivor.  We have to make a difference.  Every effort contributes to the cure, the fundraising to help those without income to care for themselves, and to raise awareness…how could i say no?

After the family is taken care, usually around 10 p.m., the daily emails, administrative duties, and lecture preparation begins.  As this entry began, the to-do list for tomorrow is all ready to go when I finish around midnight. The next day has already begun….