by Helen Zarocostas

Created on: February 09, 2007   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

I'm a breast cancer survivor, it's nine years now and my oncology surgeon says that's a great sign. Doctors never say the word cured, they prefer remission.
I still remember every detail of the examinations, biopsies and Mammograms. Each one brought more devastating news of how big and dangerous my "lump' was and my level of terror grew in proportion to the unwanted news.

In the early days before treatment began, my family of males found the whole diagnoses impossible to face and I have to say that their distant attitude added to my anguish. But men are men and once treatment had begun, surgery followed by therapy, they couldn't have been more supportive. At last they could do something. Visit me and bring along their friends. buy me roses and drive me to the treatments.
People still tell me how brave I was during and after the difficult period before it appeared that I was going to be a survivor. What I kept to myself was the 3.am blues as I called them. I would wake from a troubled, often pain filled sleep on the dot at 3. am every morning. The house was quiet, the world slept, and I was safe to creep from my bed and make my way to the living room. Here I'd sit in a comfortable chair my sore arm resting on a pillow, and wallow in tears of anger and self pity. I mourned for my lost body part, for my altered self image as a woman, and in terror that I would still lose my life.
I had just started a greatjob and I wanted to prove to myself I was equal to it, wanted to see my children's children grow, and to travel and of course write.
Thank you God, all these wishes you have granted.

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