Thought I'd share an excerpt of a chapter from my planned book about breast cancer. I'm about 1/2 way through the entire process now with 6 sessions of chemo finished and heading into preparation for radiation within the next month.

This chapter was written after my first chemo session. Chemo is like a wave. One week of feeling poorly, then all the remaining time until the next treatment gets crammed with every bit of living possible. This chapter, in it's very roughest stages here, was written in that "window" before my next treatment.

Google is my enemy

Fear controls your life in the early days after a diagnosis. It requires a near Herculean effort not to Google your cancer diagnosis. I was so afraid to know what I was facing. I wanted to grieve the loss of the comfort of good health. We all did this with a vengeance. And I think we made the right choice.

Google can be both a good and bad thing. The problem stems from the lack of individuality in the information a cancer patient can find on the Internet. Remember that cancer is individual? Google doesn’t make it so. Every bit of information reflects generalities that care nothing about the patient. Google doesn’t care that you’re crying, you’re afraid, or that you fear for your very life.

My brother Googled my cancer for me. And what he found slowly lifted me up a little. I remember barely whispering to him to just tell me if it’s terminal. His answer of “no” lifted me up in unimaginable ways. Flashes of my kid’s faces paraded through my head as I fell to my knees to cry. My grief lessened in tiny but measurable amounts. I wouldn’t be leaving my beloved husband. My kids would have their Mommy. I wasn’t going to leave this earth anytime soon.

I never at any time felt that I needed to be brave. I surely consider anyone who’s diagnosed with cancer that Googled his or her illness the bravest soul on earth. I avoided it like the plague. Did I transfer my fear to Google? Probably.

I wanted to get all the information about my breast cancer from my doctors. I didn’t want to glean information from some anonymous source. From the very beginning, I had a great concern of being lumped in the “breast cancer” club. I didn’t want to get lost in the mix.

Case in point. Everyone wants to tell you his or her breast cancer stories as soon as you’re diagnosed. “My neighbor” has breast cancer or “my mom had breast cancer.” Argh! I heard that so many times. It’s not that I don’t appreciate commiseration. However, this was simply more Googling but in a different manner.

Human Googling. What a concept! I really believe that people who told me their story were genuinely concerned for my welfare. I do appreciate the sentiment. However, I have a very soft heart and I empathize very deeply with people in pain or in sorrow. I felt these folks’ sadness within myself. And I felt like I needed to run screaming in the other direction.

My Dad gave me this empathetic gene. Right along with the drama queen gene. How lucky can a girl get?

Let my experience be my own. Let my diagnosis be unique. Let my treatment plan be guided by the decisions made by my husband and me with the help of skilled professionals. It’s certain that none of my doctors Googled “Sharon’s breast cancer” right before I walked in the front door of their office. If they did, I’d have kicked them in the shin.

My brave Bill decided he could Google my type of breast cancer after speaking to my brother. I feared the floodgates of misinformation would open. Information isn’t necessarily a wonderful thing. And that infernal “information highway” is filled with potholes. Bill was very brave. I was a first class, head-in-the-sand ostrich. And I was perfectly content to stay that way.

Bill says his need to know overruled his fear of knowing. He calls himself a “caveman” and he needed to have some tangible information to help me make decisions. He didn’t want to visit the doctors blind. He wanted to have some kind of battle plan and be able to ask informed questions. He’s my knight in shining armor for a reason, can’t you tell?

So I’ve got a brave caveman Googler holding my hand along the way. What else does a girl need?

Inner strength came slowly from simply not Googling. I lived in my grief for a week or so, waiting to form our game plan. I armed myself with the knowledge that Bill would help me make decisions. We entered our marriage as a unit and every decision would be made together. I trusted him completely to lend a guiding hand.

Despite the Googling.

I did eventually Google invasive lobular carcinoma. Big mistake. The first item on the list turned out to be a blog by a woman who was dying from ILC. I read it from top to bottom, twice. It was brutal. Remember how I told you I don’t believe in coincidences? After reading her blog, I knew it held a deep message for me. Between the lines of her writing, I detected an acceptance to her plight. Underscored with her sadness. I sensed her deep-seated need to turn back time, to rearrange her choices, and that it was simply too late.

The message I took from her blog was simple. Don’t accept arrogance from doctors. Don’t accept pat answers. Don’t accept “you’re cured.” Don’t accept anything until I ask every question there is to ask. Never consider myself anything other than the unique individual that I am. And fight my breast cancer with everything that I’m worth. From the beginning, completely and totally, and with every fiber of my being and every ounce of my strength.