There’s nothing funny about breast cancer. But when it comes to raising money for a worthwhile cause, my son is not above using humor. And that’s why Mike Rowe, this year’s celebrity ambassador for breast cancer awareness, has removed his jeans on national TV and asked people to donate the cost of a new pair of jeans on denimday.com.
The cause is a good one, and I was happy to join my son in claiming that the solution to conquering breast cancer could be in our jeans. Mike was incredibly supportive of me when I had breast cancer, and knows first hand the impact of a diagnosis.
Certain events in our lives are unforgettable: the birth of a child; the death of a parent; an anxiously awaited telephone call from the doctor… Fourteen years later, I still remember every word.
“I have the pathology on your tumor, Mrs. Rowe.” I tilted the phone so that my husband could hear.
“It’s good news,” he said. John and I exhaled and exchanged grateful glances as I ran my fingers over the white bandage protruding from the top of my night gown.
“It was a ductile carcinoma, and we got good margins. My secretary will give you an appointment to remove the stitches next week. 
We’ll chat then. Bring your hubby along.”
With a spring in his step I hadn’t seen in weeks, John retrieved the medical dictionary.
“Ductal carcinoma…ductal carcinoma…ductal…”
As he read, I sat, stunned. At the age of fifty-nine, I did, indeed, have breast cancer. We wondered what the good news was.
The following week our question was answered. The good news was that I’d had my regular mammogram — the picture that exposed a small tumor before it could breach the walls of the milk duct and spread.
An oncologist explained that errant cancer cells might have broken away from the tumor, however. “It just takes one small cell,” he warned, and prescribed thirty rounds of radiation — just in case.
No big deal, we told ourselves. Certainly less traumatic than some treatments. During that first session, a purple grid was tattooed on the target area. Days later I pulled on a wrinkled blue gown, and lay on a table in the cavernous treatment room while technicians manipulated a monster machine. When it was positioned just above the grid, they told me to lie perfectly still, then scurried away, taking refuge behind a bunker at the back of the room.
A red light flashed, a loud buzzer beeped, and the linear accelerator droned.
I tried not to think of the doctor’s warning of possible damage to my heart, lung, and other healthy tissue. It was over in no time — for that day… The next day — same drill: flashing light; loud beeping buzzer; scurrying techs. It was like the London blitz, and I felt alone on the streets.
Two months seemed an eternity not to shower, or use soap. A persistent red rash made clothing uncomfortable. No matter. I checked off the days on the calendar. On day fifteen, I began having trouble swallowing, and talked to the radiation oncologist about discontinuing treatment. He strongly warned against it.
Once famous for humming cheerfully around the house and wearing a perpetual smile, I began crying for no apparent reason.
The smallest challenge tried my patience, and John found himself living with a stranger. The woman he had nicknamed ‘Pollyanna,’ flew into a rage at the least provocation. Through tears, I spoke with a nurse practitioner.
“You’re suffering from depression,” she said, and gave me the name of a support group. Imagine! Pollyanna depressed!
“I don’t need a support group.” I told her about my wonderful family and friends.
“Give it a try,” she urged, handing me a brochure.
Days later, after I’d thrown a salt shaker at John, narrowly missing his head, I called HopeWell Cancer Support, (which was then The Wellness Community–Baltimore.)
That Tuesday afternoon (while John was at home hiding the kitchen knives), I joined a small group of people, all struggling to cope with the stress of living with cancer. Men and women, old and young, rich and poor, led by an experienced psycho-therapist named Andre.
Week after week we shared our stories – crying, laughing, passing boxes of Kleenex, and eating chocolate. We listened, buoyed by courageous optimism, and saddened by despair. We understood the resentment when they spoke of a lifetime of healthy diet and exercise – for nothing. No one ever gave advice or told someone else how to feel.
I felt like a fraud, sharing the limelight with people in the latter stages of the disease and suffering from the devastating effects of chemo. I decided to drop out to make space for someone more deserving. Andre convinced me that my presence was important to the group dynamic. “Each person brings something special,” he told me. I continued on, even though my treatment had ended.
Long after my rash disappeared and I resumed showering, I attended ‘group’ — to cheer when someone’s blood count improved, when an MRI confirmed no new tumor growth, or when somebody donned a new wig. The Tuesday thirty-five-year-old Sandra sashayed through the door sporting an impressive pair of newly reconstructed breasts, we oohed and aahed, and celebrated with cake and ice cream. When Bill was too weak to walk, we met him at the door with a wheelchair.
There were unspoken prayers for desperate patients traveling to far off places for experimental treatments — and mourning when those treatments were unsuccessful.
At home, I had stopped crying and throwing salt shakers. (Kitchen knives were returned to their drawers.) I couldn’t even remember when my swallowing issues had disappeared.
From those in remission and from those who had celebrated that magical five year milestone, I learned that cancer changes a person’s perspective. Even after the cure, the fear of new cancer lurks on the horizon. Five years following my treatment, a swelling appeared on either side of my nose. Convinced that my cancer had returned, I visited my GP, who referred me to an ENT (the same one who had removed our children’s tonsils.) During the examination, he peered at me over his glasses.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Mrs. Rowe.” I braced myself — some rare type of rhino-cancer, undoubtedly.
Then, with a twinkle in his eye — “In all my years of practice, I have never seen, nor have I heard of a case of breast cancer metastasizing to the nose.” He smiled, and I relaxed.
Harmless coughs and stiff necks have sent me racing to the doctor. Recently, a suspicious white streak on my knuckle,surrounded by redness and swelling landed me in the office of a general surgeon.My husband later remarked that it was the most expensive splinter in the history of medicine. He brought it home in a jar, examined it under a magnifying glass, took a picture of it beside a tooth pick, and measured it. When company comes, John shows it off like a sideshow exhibit. “Yes siree,” he says, “the golden spike!”
At the end of the day after our mics had been removed, Mike and I stood side by side on a Hollywood soundstage 
under hot lights and staring into cameras for ‘still’ shots. He turned to me.
“Remember that Dirty Jobs promo I did with the pig? It was on this very sound stage; the pig was standing right where you are.”
“You’re not going to say, ‘Déjà vu,’ are you,? I said.
He smiled. “Of course not. The pig had a pedestal. He also bit me on the arm and peed on the floor. I love working with you, Mom,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulder.
I know a compliment when I hear one.
29 Comments
It has been 6 yrs since I heard those awful words of breast cancer. I went through the tests, biopsy and then surgery. During recovery a second call that surgery did not result in a clean margin. Back to surgery and then port surgery and all the chemicals and radiation one thinks they can handle. Since I was a widow my family was my continued strength and the Lord during the quiet moments when the fear builds. Looking around the chemo room you saw young men and women and knew they were being so brave.
Sharing with others helped whether it was a tear or a laugh. Knowing you, Peggy, and Mike can use your resources to spread encouragement AND encourage financial support through the cost of jeans is wonderful. We all have our parts to play in this production of life as we find it. Keep up the good works and bringing smiles. God Bless.
What a great cause and slogan! When I unwittingly got drafted into the BC Sorority, I developed a new perspective on life. Quit sweating the small stuff – the tamoxifen will keep me hot enough! Peggy, you are my hero. Keep doing what you’re doing and inspiring others. And tell Mike to keep his pants on except for truly important occassions like this one! Jane
I too remember the words my doctor spoke on the phone. First he said “why don’t you come in….I don’t wanna do this on the phone”. Sitting at my console at work, with my 3 co workers watching I said “no..go ahead..in person or on the phone won’t change it”. He said “Tanya, you have 2 types of stage 4 cancer. I spoke to my best friend, a gynecological oncologist. I want you to see him…he’s the best” My co workers hugged, cried and calls were made to my family. For some odd reason I felt good…both spiritually and mentally. I was ready to face it. A week later I underwent a 6 hour surgery, waking up to an incision that wrapped completely around my abdomen. Only the small of my back wasn’t cut. 350 staples held me together. My husband slept beside me on a blow up mattress and never left my side. I hung a picture of Mike in my room. Being a fan for a few years and meeting him shortly before he gave me inspiration. It must have worked because here I am, 2 years later and cancer free. Proved all the doctors wrong, yes I did. 3 other women diagnosed the same week, same doctor perished shortly after surgery. My doctor said “you’re my miracle” It was a rough road but it gave me an understanding of the word ‘thankful’ and now I don’t sweat the small stuff. Cancer has taken so much from our world but hopefully, in some cases, it has also given back. I also went on to meet Mike a second and third time. Thanks again Ms Peggy for a wonderful story. I needed a smile today.
By writing this article on what you experienced when dignosed with cancer, you will help so many people and their families know what they can expect emotionally, and how important family support is. Great article, Peggy
Mrs. Rowe, you remind me of so many of our cancer patients. Once they get through the shock, get through the treatments, they develop a great sense of humor, realize that no one is going to get out of life alive, they don’t sweat the small stuff and seem to enjoy every day a little more than most people. I just enjoy them more than most of our other patients. Congratulations on beating breast cancer and thanks for sharing your story.
Hey Peg !
Scary stuff for a family to go thru !
Good for you and Michael, you guys are doing a good thing !
I can see John zigging with a quick zag to get away from the salt shaker now…
(really liked the article, hated that you had to go thru it!)
Love,
Nancy
Congrats on your recovery Mrs. Rowe. Your son’s good man.
Peg, Thanks for sharing your story. We love the Rowe humor about the pig! I have several friends who are breast cancer survivors. I’ll definitely look into denimday.com
Jane
I always get such pleasure reading your blogs! Even though we have never met I feel like I know you from your stories. You are so genuine!!! Very entertaining too!! Hope the best for you & your health!!! I just love you & your husband on the Kimberly Clark commercials!!! My husband works for that company. Thank you, your husband & Mike for representing it so well!!! Your Fan Peggy Watson Paris Texas.
A truely moving story. Your incredible strength and no doubt faith shows thru. My greatest respect to you for sharing such an emotionaland personal time. I see where your son gets his humor.
As always, your stories bring reality to light in many ways.
thanks.
maureen
Thank you for writing this, Mrs. Rowe. Your compassion for the others is expressed beautifully here. And like your son, your ability to throw in a dose of humor, in just the right measure, is always appreciated.
The depression might be the worst part. My mother recently finished her treatments and instead of rejoicing at the news of a clean bill of health her depression has worsened. She can’t fathom how she’s going to pay for all the medical expenses. Yes her insurance covered a good portion but the radiation treatments had a $40/treament co-pay. She went for 5 weeks, 5 days per week. Doesn’t seem so bad but for a retiree on a fixed income of around $1000/month…the financial toll often causes unconsolable sobbing. And today she thinks she’s found another small bump.
I don’t think she’ll do it all again(treaments/sx). Don’t blame her. If finances were no problem she would go through the surgery and the treatments willfully again. The physical medicinal aspects she’s dealt with quite well but financially it’s been too devastating. All I can do is try to be supportive in whatever decisions she makes and try and do little things here and there to relieve the deep depression.
Mrs. Rowe: God’s timing is so perfect…reading your article I’m compelled to share with a friend who just finished her first round of chemo for lukemia. I know this will inspire her. THanks for sharing.
GOd bless!
Deb
Thank you so much for sharing, Mrs. Rowe.
My mother-in-law is also a survivor of breast cancer, and more recently, of colon cancer. Her story is similar to yours, (with the notable exception of her son leaving his pants ON in public). I am forever inspired by the strength she showed, the willingness in allowing us to share and support her during the bad days, and the enviable ability to find the humor in just about anything. You and my mother-in-law, I’m quite sure you’re both cut from the same cloth. And may you both continue to inspire those lucky enough to be in your presence.
~Laura
You’re an amazing woman, Mrs. Rowe! Thank you for sharing such a personal experience with us. I wish you continued good health.
I appreciate you sharing your life stories Mrs. Rowe and being the mother of a very dirty boy.
In our crazy Irish family if we do anything well, it is to serve as a good “bad example”! My mother was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer in the first week of December 2010. Had she listened to her doctor and gotten her preventative check ups, scans and scopes she could have caught the tumor before it had spread. She has been an incredible inspiration in her battle with cancer. She is positive, faithful and the “Biggest, Baddest, S.O.B. in the place” (that is a great story for another time!!). Prayers and the power of positive thinking from all of us have helped her to overcome this hurdle. At the same time she recognizes that her second chance is her first opportunity to encourage everyone to get those preventative scans. They truly do save lives! The cost and discomfort of the preventative treatment is nothing compared to the cost and discomfort of the treatments to try to save your life!
God Bless & thank you Peggy and your family!
Melody
Such a great and encouraging blog, Mrs. Rowe. So glad it all worked out well for you. I love the promos for Denim Day. They couldn’t have chosen a better spokesman.
Dear Mrs. Rowe, Thank you for reminding me, again. I was putting off my own mammogram because of fear. Afraid to face the possibility of another scar or worse. Since that first day, I first saw your son Michael on top of the Mighty Mac, I can’t seem to stop trying to conquer my fears. Along with your open nature and willingness to share, I am learning to care about myself in a way I cannot explain. Only to tell you, my life is forever changed. I am sincerely grateful to you and yours.
I love the Rowe Family
Absolutely beautiful story!
“It was like the London blitz, and I felt alone on the streets.”
An apt description.
My 56 year old aunt recently celebrated 5 years cancer free.
A friend just had both breasts removed after a particularly devasting diagnosis and horrible chemotherapy: she is 25.
No matter the age, gender, race, cancer can affect us all.
Thank you for sharing your story, and congratulations on your continued good health.
Mrs. Rowe,
Thank for writing down your story. All the challenges and the fears, and the twinge you feel that you aren’t as bad off as the next guy. Do you celebrate or become sympathetic? I’ve only noticed sympathy or grateful relief, which is a good comment on our species.
I have printed off the supplied facts about Lee’s Denim Day Campaign and put them up around the office. I work at a general surgery office where both splinters and various cancers are removed. The breast cancer stories are far too numerous, but huge strides have been made, because of available funding.
Which is why Denim Day is so important.
My Mother is alive and well after a horrible year of sickness and treatments. I wish she would have gone to some of those sessions.
Her therapy was making special hats for the women who did not want to wear a wig. The patients love them and she got a fuzzy feeling giving them away. I had her crochet some tiny pink pigs that I give away to special people as well to show support.
Thank you Mrs. Rowe for sharing and thank you Mike for your support.
Lisa
I just want to say thanks so much for sharing a story with a happy ending.
(And I think Mike forgot to mention about that pig snorting a lot too…)
I apologise, it’s me again. I encourage all women reading this to get regular mammograms if you’re of that “special age group” and for the men readers, we sometimes need reminders so put a bug in your Honey’s ear.
Mrs. Rowe, I am very happy that you are cancer free and may you remain healthy.
In August of last year a mother of a close childhood friend of mine, J. celebrated 5 years cancer free and we rejoiced. In December, J. was diagnosed with it at the age of 45; it was like getting a punch in the stomach when I heard. Her cancer was found early because like you she has regular mammograms. The great news is her treatments are over (chemo) and she is cancer free!
My province’s health department sends out reminders to us women when our mammograms appointments are due, yearly for those of us between the ages of 40 and 50, biannually afterward, mine is scheduled for next month.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for this very touching story, Mrs. Rowe, and for sharing your life with us.