Good News Is Gospill

Author: Leslie Gospill

  • Facing Mortality: My Breast Cancer Journey, Cont’d.

    Facing Mortality: My Breast Cancer Journey, Cont’d.

    “HEY DOC! EYES UP HERE!!” The impossibly young-looking head of plastic surgery was laser-focused on my breasts, black Sharpie poised — ready to mark his targets.

    I figured a little levity could ease the tension in the pre-op bay.

    Then my mom stepped in — bless her heart — and exclaimed, “Oh my God, you ARE Doogie Houser!”

    Yep. That’s my mama! Right on cue! I might have blushed, except I was sitting on the edge of the bed, torso exposed for all to draw on, discuss, contemplate. Maybe my stepdad was even in there. I didn’t care. I was at a place where embarrassment doesn’t exist. And where humor should be essential.

    Because I thought, what’s the alternative?

    The day didn’t start out so lighthearted. That morning, April 18, 2006, before we headed to the hospital for my double mastectomy, mortality was pretty much the only thing on my mind. My anxious folks were at my apartment waiting to go to the hospital with me, just staring at me, with … Fear? Pity? I had to step away to take the trash out … And to cry one more time without anyone else seeing my fear.

    My mortal fear.

    Mortality is a word I probably never used before 2006. But that’s what cancer does to you. It’s not always a death sentence. But it sure makes you think …

    And then, thanks to that little walk to the dumpster, something shifted. I accepted my fate — and my mortality. I didn’t know what would happen next, but I knew I’d made the right choice. I’d done the research. I felt powerful in my knowledge.

    And, I told myself, I’d lived a full and exciting 48 years already. If I were to lose this cancer battle, I would accept that fate, too. The only thing left undone was raising our 13-year-old son. But I had faith in his dad.

    Just like the faith I was putting in those doctors.

    That was 20 years ago today. I’m celebrating my two decades as a Breast Cancer Warrior by participating in Making Strides Against Breast Cancer. Please join me! Walk with me in October, and/or donate. https://secure.acsevents.org/goto/lesliegospill

  • A Personal St. Patrick’s Day Massacre: My Cancer Journey

    A Personal St. Patrick’s Day Massacre: My Cancer Journey

    20 YEARS AGO TODAY, St. Patrick’s Day, 2006, was the night I hit the anger stage—among the 5 stages of breast cancer grief.

    By then, a month after finding my lump, I knew I was facing a double mastectomy. But on March 17, it finally landed: Everything had to go.

    EVERYTHING.

    I hadn’t fully understood it until that moment… everything!?! Really??

    Man, I was furious!! Up to that point, I thought I’d handled it well — the discovery, the tests, the decisions. But sitting in my doctor’s office that day, reality broke through.

    Cancer was about to take away part of my sexual identity.

    That night, I went out with friends — green beer, music, dancing. On the surface, it looked like a celebration. Inside, I was unraveling. People laughed, shouted, showed off their green tongues. I watched, stunned by how normal everything seemed. And I was so. incredibly. angry. (And yes, scared, too.)

    March 17, 2006, became known as my own, personal “St. Patrick’s Day Massacre.” It was one of the emotionally toughest days of my cancer year.

    What else would cancer steal from me in 2006? My hair, my son, my income. All, thankfully, briefly — unlike the permanence of a double mastectomy and reconstruction.

    Of all the St. Patrick’s Days in my life — and there have been many good ones — that one is etched in me forever.

    20 years later, I’m here to memorialize my journey and support others who may just be starting their battle. I’d be honored if you considered supporting my Making Strides campaign:

  • 20 Years of Breast Cancer Awareness: A Personal Journey

    20 Years of Breast Cancer Awareness: A Personal Journey

    EXACTLY 20 YEARS AGO TODAY, in the languid embrace of my guy on a lazy afternoon while watching the 2006 Olympic men’s downhill, he suddenly jumped off the sofa (and me) and pointed at my breast.

    “What is THAT??? Have you had that checked out?” I touched where he was pointing. It felt like small almond.

    I was not alarmed. The Olympics were on! I was healthy. Incredibly fit. Plus, I’d had a clean mammogram just three months before. I was sure it was nothing — but I promised I’d call my doctor first thing Monday …

    Apparently, I have dense tissue.

    20 years ago today, watching the downhill was the beginning of an uphill battle I’ll fight the rest of my life.

    But now I fight for my sisters and brothers and their loved ones. I’m back on it — raising funds for Making Strides Against Breast Cancer.

    (Yes, I know I’m starting early this year, but I couldn’t pass up this anniversary celebration. Please donate or join my team and help me raise funds.)

  • Really, I’m not sick. I’m just battling a genetic twist of fate.

    Really, I’m not sick. I’m just battling a genetic twist of fate.

    I’m not sick. Not even just a little bit … So, why would I do this?

    In a few hours I’ll be lying on an operating table having a “partial hysterectomy.” And I’m doing it because I can.

    Or, at least, because should. I think.

    The intention is to remove parts of my anatomy that might, maybe, could, possibly end up with ovarian cancer sometime in my life — due to a recently discovered genetic mutation that says so.

    God bless modern science! I support it, and am grateful for such cutting-edge research and protocols.

    But, it does give me pause …

    How proactive and prophylactic can — or should — we be in this brave new world of medicine?

    I wonder what other mutations are hiding there in my twisty DNA life story? And for that matter, do I really want to know? What other parts of me need to be cut out? Or, given such knowledge, perhaps of inoperable parts — or even low-percentage likelihoods — how would I then live the rest of my life?

    Which is better: Knowledge and a proactive approach to life-threatening diseases? Or blissful ignorance?

    Today, I’m choosing the former.

  • The Point

    The Point

    In times of strife or frustration, and sometimes just on a regular, boring day of Arizona same-ness, my son asks “what’s the point?”

    Maybe all kids are saying that today … I bought him “The Goldfinch,” because it’s an ongoing theme, as it is in “Infinite Jest” (or so I’m told … It’s 1000 pages + end notes).

    But, at some stage, there’s an a-ha moment in those books, and in life, when your heart/soul finds peace and resolution.

    (Or so I’m told …)

    I can’t tell Tom what “the point” is. I can’t tell him — because I don’t know. But as I ponder this, I am struck by a random act of inspiration and human connection that happened yesterday without me putting enough value in it:

    An older Asian lady heard me ask a clerk at Trader Joe’s if they had Hoisin sauce. They don’t. But sweet#MrsKim asked me to follow her to her cart. She had just been to an Asian market in town, she says as she pulls out a bottle from a plastic bag–and hands it to me. I tried to pay, but all she wanted was a kiss on her crepe-y cheek — and to know my name.

    I’d forgotten the moment as soon as I returned to sullen Tom waiting in the car. Forgot all day, until this morning, when my purse felt heavier than usual …

    Now, I’m not a great cook (hunting for Hoisin is not a regular activity), and I’m definitely failing as a role model and inspiration for my kid … But thanks to #MrsKim, I experienced a moment that should not be forgotten among all my moments. Maybe sharing kindness is HER point. Maybe that instance was to help remind me that we’re not all alone on this marble.

    Thank you, #MrsKim. Thanks for being alive — and for positively impacting my life this weekend. I’m pretty sure, in the final analysis, that should always be “the point.”
    ——
    Also, I’ll be making tons of Chinese dishes over the next few weeks … And then, I might just frame this magical bottle.

     
  • I am Not a Cancer Survivor

    I am Not a Cancer Survivor

    Nine years ago this month I recall looking at myself in the mirror and assessing the situation: I was bald. My memory was spotty. I sat down a lot more than I stood up. And I had these crazy, stop-men-in-their-tracks “Fembot” boobs (called spacers) implanted in my chest to help stretch my healing skin and tissue in preparation for breast reconstruction later that fall.

    I was done with chemo. I was cancer free. But I knew I still had a lot more fight ahead of me in terms of reconstruction, rehabilitation, re-establishing my career and rebuilding a relationship with my son.

    I also knew I would be forever vigilant against recurrence: I would have to see surgeons and oncologists annually for the rest of my life. From there on out, I would be on the defensive against this insidious disease.

    (more…)