Five years ago, I was marching from the subway to NYU hospital for yet another surgery—two weeks after a bilateral mastectomy—with the high-stakes knowledge that if cancer cells were hiding in my body, my surgeon was going in to find them. This photo memory, which Google popped up yesterday, was taken right after I left the hospital and showcases the hope I felt that day.
I had this second surgery because the lymph nodes that biopsied negative for cancer came back positive in the pathology. Out of an abundance of caution, my surgeon said she wanted to remove all the lymph nodes under my left arm to see if any of those axillary nodes were positive. (She removed all the lymph nodes under my right arm during my mastectomy, and they were all negative, thankfully.) If any nodes under my left arm were positive, that would mean the cancer could have spread. This also meant that I would be at risk of lymphedema (swelling) not only in my right arm but now in my left arm as well.
My surgeon was devastated that this happened to me. She said, “I hate that every time you come into my office it’s a horror show. I keep pulling the rug out from under you. But I promise you this – if there’s cancer in you, I’m going in there to get it.”
While I was disappointed to have another surgery so soon and with such high stakes in the outcome, I wasn’t nervous. My surgeon’s confidence in her abilities gave me confidence in mine. I marched from the subway to NYU hospital that morning, ready for battle. I felt powerful and strong, like a warrior. I remember thinking, “Cancer, if you’re hiding in me, we’re coming for you. You can’t hide from us.”
I woke up quickly in the recovery room after surgery, completely alert and sobbing. Crying is a common reaction from anesthesia. The nurse was concerned I was crying with worry. I explained I was crying with relief and gratitude. A wave of peace washed over me: whatever the final pathology report said, we had done everything we could.
My sister came to pick me up, and she said, “What do you want to do?” I said, “I want to go for a walk.”
We walked to Macy’s to see the Christmas decorations – that’s where she took this picture of me. Then we walked home to get my dog at doggy daycare and back home to my Upper West Side apartment. It was a total of 4 1/2 miles. Those twinkling lights, the love from my sister, and that long walk made me believe that against all odds, I’d be okay.
We waited for a week for the results. I should have been panicked waiting for the results of the surgery. Again, I wasn’t nervous. We’d done everything we could. The results would be the results.
While we waited, my sister and I watched every episode of The Great British Baking Show. I took naps. We walked my dog. Friends called, brought food, and sent care packages. I knew my sister was scared. She was making plans to stay with me longer, preparing for the worst.
My surgeon’s nurse practitioner called me a week later. There was a delay in the results because the lab was backed up. She was so upset I was waiting this long, and I told her, “Don’t worry. I’m not worried.”
She called me back 10 minutes later. I could hear her crying. The results were in. All the lymph nodes were negative. No sign of cancer.
I did have some evidence of cancer cells in my breast tissue trying to escape to the rest of my body (this is called “vascular invasion”). With the mastectomy, we’d stopped them in their tracks. Still, with vascular invasion, chemo was recommended for me by a panel of oncologists that my team had consulted, not only at NYU, but at top cancer institutes across the country. So, chemo would start in a month, just before Christmas.
Though I didn’t know at the time that the coming chemo treatments would nearly kill me twice, in that moment, standing at the precipice of a new fight, I was simply and profoundly grateful for my surgeon, the dream that drove me to get tested in the first place, my sister and friends, my dog, and every breath I took.
Last week on another long walk, I went by Macy’s on my way to meet friends for dinner. How far I’ve come since that long walk five years ago. Their theme this year of “Give Love” is spread across the outside of the building in bright lights. I smiled at those words because 5 years ago cancer showed me that giving love is the secret of life. To love and be loved in return, in all the ways love shows up in this world and in our lives, is a gift beyond measure. It’s a gift I give and receive in greater amounts every day, everywhere I go. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.
Christa Avampato 