A cancer journey in letters
My doctor called me and said, “I’ve got good news and bad news.” Not exactly the words you want to hear from a doctor. “It’s not malignant,” she said. “But it is atypical.”
It’s been exactly 10 years since that phone call and my breast cancer diagnosis. I underwent a lumpectomy and radiation. This week I’ll have my annual mammogram; iA it will continue to go smoothly.
At the time of my treatment, I wrote a series of letters to my family and close friends to keep them informed and help allay their concerns. Breast cancer is not part of my family’s history.
The founder and editor of a Muslim women’s magazine asked if she could publish my letters on her magazine’s website. I hesitated, these were personal letters; but then I thought that if my experience could provide some comfort and hope or encourage another woman to self-examine or get a mammogram, it would be worth it. This is a topic not easily talked about in Muslim communities. [About eight years ago, while scrolling through social media—in fact while waiting for my mammogram results at the hospital— I was shocked to learn that the magazine editor had passed away; she had lost her own battle to cancer. I wrote this eulogy.]
As this is Breast Cancer Awareness month, I’m sharing below my third and final letter, written the day after the Sandy Hook school shooting, in the hope that it may help someone. As I say in the letter, “it’s not about me, it’s not about cancer. It’s about life’s vicissitudes, which we all face, and about getting through them with grace, community, faith, and fortitude.”
We’ll get through this, inshAllah.
Photo: Aeysha Chaudhry
Dear friends,
It’s hard to think of anything meaningful to say as our hearts ache with unrelenting grief about the Connecticut school shooting. I stopped watching the news last night, but the sadness is overwhelming. The image on the NYT home page is a black box with the names and ages of the victims written in white. Six, seven, six, seven… inna lillah wa inna ilayhi raji’oon.
It feels inappropriate to write a letter about my own health, when others are suffering unimaginable anguish. But as you’ve been by my side on this journey, I wanted to write one more note to let you know that I completed my radiation last week. Alhamdulillah.
Day 33 was in many ways like all the others. The 2:15pm appointment, the blue gown, the familiar faces in the waiting room at Sibley radiology. But on this last day, after that last beep, the technicians and I were able to laugh. They reminded me of my first day – how I refused to enter the room frozen by fear at the sight of the mammoth machine; how tightly I held those black handles they had to pry open my fingers. This last time, I was able to close my eyes. This too has passed.
There is one more step to the process. A decision about whether or not to take a drug called Tamoxifen for the next five years. It halves the chances of recurrence, but it has some serious side effects. I can’t seem to decide, and given my early detection I do have a choice. I’m taking a break for a couple of weeks, resting, recharging, and then deciding. While I’d like to think that this is the end of the process, it really is just the beginning of the journey. To a more healthy, less stressful, more joyous, less worry-filled, more giving, less self-absorbed life, insha’Allah.
This year’s struggles started with my father’s stroke; then my mom’s knee replacement surgery; then my girl’s depression. I thought I would never smile again. I knew I couldn’t get through this time without my tribe. So I reached out to all of you, family and friends, some with whom I had lost touch. It feels good to deepen our bonds of friendship, to reconnect and realize you were always there.
The other day a friend of mine who I hadn’t seen in a while came over. I filled her in about my treatment, what the doctors are advising, how my family is coping. She listened sincerely, then she looked at me and asked, “But, really, how are youdoing?” That’s when the tears started.
A friend and editor of a magazine asked if she could publish these letters on her magazine’s website. I wasn’t so sure at first, it’s been a personal journey that I’ve shared with a few. But if these letters can help start a conversation about an issue we don’t openly talk about in our own community, or encourage us to ask each other, “But really, how are you doing?”, perhaps that would be the best thing to come out of this experience.
When she asked what I’d like to title the series, I thought the five words with which I end each letter best sums it up: We’ll get through this, inshAllah. After all, it’s not about me, it’s not about cancer. It’s about life’s vicissitudes, which we all face, and about getting through them with grace, with community, with fortitude. And tonight, as I hug my children a little tighter, I will in those five words as much love, prayers, and strength as I can for those who are suffering so much.
We’ll get through this, insha’Allah.
Love,
Salma
PS: If you’d like to read the first two letters, they’re available on my website. If you or a loved one is going through cancer, or whatever your “c” may be, I’m sending you my love and prayers.
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A few past newsletters:
Wisdoms Inspired in Nature: My New Book!
Life Lessons for my Son, that I Learned this Week