My Fight for Life: Theresa’s Story

From darkness to light: Lessons learned

The prayers went out for angels and they came. A dark haired stranger. A quilt-maker in Alaska. A runner from Castro Valley. These angels came in the familiar form of family and the unfamiliar form of strangers. They lifted me up during my fight against breast cancer.

Theresa Larson raises her hands as she finishes her walk in the Survivor's Lap of the Relay For Life on June 4.

My world took an unexpected turn in May 2004 after being diagnosed. My weapons of choice were traditional medical intervention — surgery, chemotherapy, radiation treatments and antibody therapy — along with non-traditional treatments involving guided imagery and acupuncture.

And thankfully, after 16 months of treatment, with seven more months of treatment to go, I am cancer free. Over these past few months, I’ve felt like a phoenix rising.

Much of it is due to the angels.

A pebble into a pond

The day after my son’s wedding, I began to inform others of my diagnosis. My husband consoled me, and I consoled him. My children, although shaken, took the news well. My daughter searched my eyes, trying to gauge how scared she should be. Other family members reacted with shock and grief. I left a message on the desks of those I work with in an attempt to explain what was happening. I began calling friends. Sharing the news was difficult, but necessary. The action of informing was much like throwing a pebble into a pond. I was the sinking pebble. My friends and family were the ever-widening ripple of concentric rings on the surface.

In the beginning, I felt isolated and bereft of my ability to commune with God. With those fateful words — “You have cancer” — I felt as if my soul evaporated. The soulful voice that I’ve always used to communicate with that Higher Being was gone. My inability to pray left me bewildered and frightened. I confided this fear to my friend, Father Rick Matters. Father Rick placed his hand on my shoulder and smiled.

“Theresa, your soul is in shock. This is the time when you let others pray for you.”

Father Rick’s words were simple and wise. I soon began to realize I wasn’t in this fight alone.

Just days later, my friend Robbie Goodman, called me. She told me that she and her husband, Kirk, had decided that they would pray for me. She said that instead of praying for a cure, they would pray for angels to be placed in my path.

The angels began to arrive soon after.

Theresa Larson’s hand print marks her place on the survivor’s banner at the Relay For Life on June 4.

The outpouring of love and simple human compassion by friends, family and strangers stunned me. I cannot think of their acts, even to this day, without tears springing to my eyes. Nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me for the blessings I was about to receive.

Shortly after my diagnosis, I met the first of those earthbound stranger-angels. I had just left the oncologist’s office where Dr. Dighe had laid out his plan for my treatment and I was walking through the parking lot to my car. A woman stopped me. I wonder now if I looked as devastated as I felt. She looked at me, then she laid her hand on my arm and said, “You are so beautiful.”

I wanted to cry at her kind words. How did she know I needed such tenderness at that moment?

After being wheeled into my room after surgery, the curly blond-headed nurse bent over me and kissed my forehead. Groggy from the anesthesia, the relief warmed me as she whispered in my ear, “You are going to be okay.”

Later that night, my hospital roommate, Eve, became quiet after learning of my diagnosis. I wondered about her sudden stillness. She then said, “I’m praying for you.”

A mystery package from Alaska

Just a few weeks after my diagnosis, a box arrived in the mail. It had a name and return address from Anchorage, Alaska that I did not recognize. I opened the box, and inside I found the most beautiful handmade quilt I’d ever seen. It was a piece of art in hues of purple and forest green. A silver heart in one corner anchored a pink ribbon. Even the quilting stitch in that corner was in the shape of a heart. I opened the letter that was included in the box. The creator, Kim Rice, wrote that she’d heard about me through her co-worker, who also happened to be my friend, Regor Cabalfin. She wanted me to know that I wasn’t alone. Her quilt kept me warm during all of the chemo treatments.

On another day, I received a letter in the mail from Castro Valley. Again, I didn’t recognize the name or the return address. I opened the envelope and a pink ribbon with my name on it fell out. The writer introduced herself. She met my oldest friend, Despina, on a flight to Phoenix. The woman wrote that she was flying there to run in the Race for the Cure. She told me that she wore that ribbon for the entire race. She wanted me to know that she was running for me, she was running for a cure. I bawled like a baby.

Theresa Larson’s wig, along with the visor she wore during her lap in the Relay For Life’s Survivor Lap, sit in a corner of her room -- a silent reminder.

As news spread, the response of my friends multiplied. For months after my diagnosis and during my chemo treatments, not one day went by without receiving a card or letter in the mail from friends and loved ones. I began to keep those letters in a basket. The basket very quickly began to overflow.

I received flowers, books and gifts. Daily telephones calls encouraged me and kept me going. They brought me meals that nourished my soul as much as it did my body. I’ve always known that I have been blessed with wonderful friends. Their response to my crisis was overwhelming.

After being told that I would be too weak to work while undergoing chemotherapy, I despaired over being unable to pay my bills while I was on medical leave. A friend stepped up and gave me enough money to carry me through. With his help, I could simply concentrate on getting well.

The remarkable power and stamina of the women around me infused me with strength when my own energy waned. They made it clear, as they surrounded me and anchored me with their unwavering spirit, that I was not going to enter this battle alone.

Some, who previously had breast cancer, rushed to me as they heard the news I’d become one of them, and they sensed my need for reassurance. They were eager to help me in any way that they could.

There were cards from Kelly and flowers from Peggy.

Debbie told me her story of surviving Stage III metastatic breast cancer diagnosed 13 years ago.

Joann has battled the disease, and won twice.

I wanted to know all their stories. I remembered them when I was down and gathered their stories around me like a comforting blanket. Knowing that survival was possible strengthened me and gave me hope.

My female friends made me laugh, they encouraged me and cheered me on.

Julie took me to the MRI appointment that would seal my fate. Without pretense, she asked me if I was afraid. With her I could admit that I was, and talk openly about my deepest fears.

Despina, my friend for over 30 years, told me that I would suffer, but survive. Her unwavering confidence in her prediction often bolstered me when I began to lose faith. When I lost my hair, she told me I had the most perfectly shaped, beautiful bald head she’d ever seen. Despina has always told me the truth, I’ve decided.

The ‘gal pals’ come to Lodi

My high school “gal pals” and I had been planning a trip to Lake Tahoe, a 50th birthday celebration for us all. When the chemo left me too weak for the trip, they came to me instead.

That dinner at Wine and Roses was like salve to a burn. I savored every single moment of their company.

Robbie went with me to my appointments, cheered me on as my head was being shaved, brought me food and sympathized with me endlessly. She cried with me and for me.

My husband, Ray, listened to me when I talked about my wishes should I die. He has been a rock of support, but that conversation brought him to tears. He took over the household duties. My children checked in with me daily and made sure that I had rides to my appointments when I was too weak to drive.

I’ve had long heart-to-heart talks with the oncology nurses at Dr. Dighes office and the staff at Ben Schaeffer Cancer Clinic. I wanted to know how they could go to work every day and not be adversely affected by the suffering around them. Each that I spoke with stated emphatically that they didn’t see their job in that light. They knew they were making a difference, they knew that they were helping. And they were quick to remind me that people do survive cancer. As far as I am concerned, the staff at both places are real heroes.

Lessons learned

So what have I learned? I’ve learned that human beings are capable of truly selfless compassion, and their compassion humbles me. I’ve learned that a hug can banish fear. A card can bring a smile to my lips as it warms my heart. I’ve learned that a telephone call can ease the anguish of being bald and the discomfort of chemotherapy. I’ve learned that a prayer on your behalf can be felt whether whispered next door or hundreds of miles away. And, sadly, I saw that I have not been as much of a comfort and support as I could have been when those around me were fighting their own demons. That will never be the case again.

I have learned that despite being given such an awful diagnosis, you can smile and be happy and embrace the dawning of each new day. I’ve learned that it’s okay to ask for, and receive, help — for when you allow others to help, you are giving them a precious gift. I’ve learned that fear can drive you down into that “fraidy hole” of despair. And until you confront that fear and face it down, it pervades everything. I’ve learned that I could endure, and survive, much more than I ever thought possible.

As much as I worried for myself, I also worried about my family and how they would endure this crisis. It was the innocence of a child that lifted me up and made me realize that my worrying was really unnecessary.

My granddaughter, Haylee, was scheduled to arrive for a short visit at Christmas. When Haylee was here six months earlier, I had just been diagnosed and still had hair. I worried that my bald head might scare her. I really didn’t know how to approach the subject with a 3 year-old child. I worried that if I had my wig on and pulled it off, it would frighten her. I didn’t know how I might answer her inevitable questions.

Finally, I made a decision.

When Haylee and her dad arrived at the front door, I was wearing the stocking cap that I used to keep my head warm during the winter months. Haylee hugged me, then she said, “Mimi, what’s that on your head?”

I explained that I wore the cap to keep my head warm because I didn’t have any hair. I asked her if she’d like to see, and she nodded her head. When I pulled off the cap, she just looked and me and said in a hushed tone, “Oh-h-h.”

Then I said, “Honey, I have a hat that looks just like hair. Would you like to see it?”

When Haylee nodded again, I reached for my wig sitting on the table and pulled it over my bald scalp. Haylee grinned and clasped her hands before her.

“Oh, Mimi,” she exclaimed, “that’s princess hair!”

I didn’t need to worry about Haylee at all. I didn’t have to worry about any of them.

Passing the finish line

Last year as we drove to witness my son getting married, we passed Lodi High. The Relay For Life was taking place. I looked out the car window and realized that hundreds of people were giving up their time on that beautiful summer weekend to raise money for people just like me — people with cancer.

Exactly one year later, I took my place on a bright sun-lit morning on the track at the Grape Bowl. It was the annual Relay for Life. This year, however, I was not simply driving by. I was participating. I, along with so many others, wore purple T-shirts. On the front was printed the word “HOPE”, and on the back, “SURVIVOR”. I joined the ranks of survivors who would walk the first lap of the 24-hour marathon put on by the American Cancer Society. One in 7 women, that’s 211,000 women, will be diagnosed with breast cancer annually. And, yes, 40,000 women die each year from the disease. But I can now embrace a more hope-filled statistic: A little over 2 million women survive and are LIVING after being treated for breast cancer in the United States. I am one of many.

A purple-and-white-balloon arch marked the beginning line. The announcer instructed us to begin, and doves were released as I took the first step. Relay team members lined the oval and began to applaud and cheer. Their applause and words of encouragement continuing with each step. I smiled at first, happy to be called a survivor.

The previous year my ability to survive seemed so uncertain.

As I neared the finish line, a performer was singing “Climb Every Mountain”. The real significance of this short walk began to hit home. Tears streamed down my face as I crossed back under the balloon arch where the lap began.

Jennifer Howell, the photographer taking pictures to document my journey, embraced me and held me tight.

“You made it, Theresa! You made it!”

Jennifer was so right.

I MADE IT!

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My Fight for Life: Theresa’s Story

From darkness to light: Lessons learned

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