This, as yet unpublished, memoir answers all these questions, and more, from one woman’s perspective.  A central theme in the book is integration–combining Western medicine and complementary modalities, integrating different world views, religions and spiritual paths, and lastly reconciliation within a marriage.  Her inspiring story takes you step by step through all the treatments into physical recovery and remission.  But she doesn’t stop there.  With simplicity and honesty she takes you into her innermost thoughts and feelings, following the ups and downs of the deepening journey of mental, emotional and spiritual healing.

“I do not give myself the label, ‘breast cancer survivor.’  My truth is that I have done much more than simply surviving.  Instead I prefer to say, ‘I have been initiated by breast cancer’ meaning that through making sacrifices, I entered a new way of living as a stronger, more courageous woman.  Deep inside I found parts of myself that were previously buried and these became integrated into my wholeness.

I am one among many. My story is no more and no less inspiring than others I have read or heard in support groups. We all have our stories. I share mine to be of service to those who are living with cancer (or any other serious illness) or who know someone who is. Likewise, I offer it to those dealing with difficult emotions, those faced with seemingly insurmountable difficulties, those negotiating a way on the rocky spiritual path, and those seeking to live fully while looking death in the face.  With great love and gratitude for life, I present my words to you.”   

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Unseen Hands

Excerpts by Alison Hammer Winans

This book follows my geographic journey, living on both coasts and deep in the heart of this country of contrasts. As I climbed hills, meandered through woods and heard the ocean’s roar, nature became a significant piece of my path. Again and again, I witnessed the earth twirling through her seasons, the cycle of life, death and rebirth, and I realized those cycles were within me too. Through falling leaves and rotting logs, winter starkness, bursting spring buds and the cacophony of summer, the earth herself gave me lessons of letting go, of hope and renewal, and of growth.

As I began to put the pieces of my life together into this coherent story, I invoked the presence of the Divine Mother and the Heavenly Father. I summoned the qualities of love and wisdom and the power of Life itself. I asked for compassion and clarity. I prayed for the courage to tell my truth and to be authentic. I prayed that in the writing, I would come to know myself and receive a deeper level of healing. I asked that others may be helped by reading this story, that their hearts and souls may be touched, that they be given hope, and that they may laugh, cry, and be inspired. My hope was to convey the idea that there are always many choices and options in our lives.

I sit at the end of the examining table with my legs dangling over the edge, wearing a pink paper blouse and a white sheet draped around my upper body, a position which will soon become all too familiar. Dr. Smith scoots her stool over to sit very close to me and then says, “It looks like cancer.” Four words like knives that slice my life into before and after.

“Why?” I ask, “How do you know?” She shows me the printout from the sonogram, explaining that the mass is more irregular and denser than a cyst would be. She also shows me that the lymph node I recently felt under my left arm is suspiciously enlarged to 1.5 cm. I start crying and shaking, and my body gets colder and colder. The nurse gives me another sheet, but I can’t stop shaking. I’m in shock.

The young breast surgeon continues talking, her words seem to come from far away, and the room blurs around me. Her manner a perfect mixture of compassionate caring and businesslike ‘let’s get the job done,’ she talks about doing a biopsy, mammogram, surgery and chemotherapy. I can’t believe this is happening. Not only am I facing a diagnosis of cancer, I’m also confronting my own feelings about the need for western medicine. My mother’s words, you can’t trust doctors, haunt me. Here I am with a life-threatening illness, and the doctor is recommending measures that seem very drastic to me.

Tom sits there looking at the floor, saying nothing. I say frantically, “Tom, why aren’t you saying anything? What do you think?”

Dr. Smith says, “Ultimately it’ll be your decision.”

I sniffle, “I should’ve seen a doctor earlier.”

She pats my knee and says, “You can’t change the past.” Knowing our financial situation and lack of medical insurance, she then says, “This is going to be very expensive. I can ask my receptionist to contact the nonprofit Tulsa Project Woman for financial help, if you decide to go ahead with the biopsy.” Thoughts spin around in my head like racing cars and everything is happening too fast, but I remember that Amma told me to have a biopsy. I know that now is the time to act. So as tears roll down my cheeks, I say, “Yes, I’ll have the biopsy.”

As we wait for the go-ahead from Project Woman, the surgeon explains what is involved in the biopsy. The only information I’m able to retain is that she told me to wear a bra to bed for a couple of nights because I'm going to be sore. Somehow I remember that my new friend, Mary, who is here with us, told me about iscador, a mistletoe extract. “I think I’ll want to use iscador as well.”

“Hmm, iscador.” She searches her memory, wrinkling her forehead. “Oh yes, that’s what Suzanne Somers used for her breast cancer. Well, you’ll make your own decisions, and I’ll still treat you if you are using iscador.” That’s a relief to me, because I’m certain that if I’m going to use Western medicine, I’ll also do everything else that I possibly can to mitigate the negative side effects.

Although Dr. Smith empowers me to make my own choices, she is very clear about her recommendations: have a biopsy to confirm the diagnosis and find out the type of breast cancer, have chemotherapy to shrink the mass, and then operate to remove the mass. In my case, the lump is so big—larger than a golf ball on the sonogram—that she wants to shrink it to maximize the chances of successfully removing all the cancer cells during surgery. Within minutes, Project Woman accepts me. Still shaking, I lie back down on the table for the needle core biopsy, and everyone goes to work. The room swirls with quiet voices, white coats moving, steel instruments flashing and bright lights in my eyes.

I look away as the surgeon injects a local anesthetic into my breast. It’s not enough to dull the burning pain when the first sample is taken. She injects more, and takes three more samples—the instrument sounds like a staple gun, further shocking me. I’m vaguely aware of Tom and Mary, close to me. Dr. Smith leaves the room, while her nurse stays to sustain pressure on the wound for ten minutes. Tom is at my feet, holding my toes, doing Jin Shin Jyutsu. Mary, with her soft face and calm, healing presence, is also touching me, as if she’s Mother Mary herself. Although three angels are surrounding and loving me, I am weeping out loud and shivering, unable to get warm even under the layers of covers.

 *   *   *   *   *

We went to the health food store to eat and shop, and plan the next move. My breast jiggled and hurt with every step, and I had to fold my arms over my chest. Now I realized why my first meeting with Mary was so confusing. Others had told me it was a cyst, but her intuition said “cancer,” so she had the ethical dilemma of knowing what to say without the professional authority to diagnose it. As I was yanked out of my denial, the trauma was immense, even though I had a compassionate doctor, a loving husband, and a knowledgeable friend with me. I couldn’t imagine how much worse it was for women with unsympathetic doctors or partners who distanced themselves. The date was January 2, 2002. Happy New Year! Everything was moving very fast, and I was still in shock.

At the same time, I felt divinely guided and protected. Amma had watched over me and Tom as we drove across the country and led me first to Mary, for practical, emotional, and spiritual support, and then to this kind surgeon. Mary reassured me, “This is a doorway to make you stronger. You are in divine hands and it is all happening the way it’s meant to.” But because I believed in holistic medicine, I now needed to find and carefully install some faith in the medical profession. Again my mother’s words resounded in my head, “Doctors don’t know anything.” With this new development, I would likely be putting my body in the hands of doctors. I was afraid their treatment would be worse than the disease. On the other hand, I was too scared to rely exclusively on alternative cancer treatments.

Dr. Smith called me two days later with the biopsy results—yes, it was breast cancer.

I decided to cover all the bases, using every form of natural medicine available to me to support my health if I went through the invasive medical treatments. My real hope though was that my natural interventions would trigger my body to heal itself, eliminating the need for the slash and burn methods. I did feel the urgent need to stop the growth of the cancer. But my twenty-plus years of studying natural healing convinced me that eliminating the disease involved more than getting rid of the cancer cells. Turning negatives into positives was my credo. My body was giving me a message by growing a tumor in my breast, and I wanted to understand it.

And so in the few weeks after my diagnosis, an intention gradually solidified, like milk turning into yogurt. The diagnosis of breast cancer would be a doorway to deeper healing. Focusing on myself for the time being, instead of providing support for others seeking health, I would craft my own package of integrative medicine, like building up a collage, with each piece adding to the balance of form, color and overall harmony.

Read another excerpt that addresses issues of living with a post-mastectomy body.

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