Learning that expertise doesn’t erase fear
As a nurse, Sherry understood the seriousness of cancer. But that didn’t prevent her from minimizing what was happening.
Because the tumor was small, she assumed it was unlikely to have spread. When a physician recommended additional lymph node testing, she resisted. Part of her concern was lymphedema, a side effect she well knew could affect quality of life long after treatment ended. The physician persisted, however, and Sherry was startled by the results: 13 of the 30 lymph nodes removed tested positive for cancer.
Looking back, Sherry says, “I was naive. Truly naive.”
The experience taught her something she would later share with many of her own clients: Knowledge doesn’t always make difficult decisions easier. “I was certainly minimizing,” she says. “I thought I was healthy.”
As her diagnosis became more complex, she also learned how important it was to find a healthcare team she trusted. Some of her early interactions with her care team left her feeling scared and alone. One physician delivered the news that the cancer had spread to her bones in a way that felt abrupt and devastating. “It was like a death sentence,” she says. When another doctor delivered biopsy results and quickly left Sherry alone in the room, she knew she needed something different.
After changing physicians, she found providers who treated her not only as a patient, but as a person. Her new oncologist welcomed emotional support and meditation as part of her care. A close friend who was also a physician would sometimes visit during chemotherapy, bringing a guitar and singing at her bedside. As a result, Sherry felt “loved and taken care of” by her new care team. That support became especially important as treatment intensified.
Trusting herself when treatment became too much
In the mid-1990s, treatment options for metastatic breast cancer looked much different than they do today. Sherry underwent chemotherapy, including the doxorubicin (Adriamycin) regimen known even then as the “red devil,” followed by a clinical trial involving high-dose chemotherapy and a stem cell transplant. “It was very, very toxic,” she says.
The grueling treatment required inpatient stays. Sherry and Sue spent months near the hospital while receiving treatment. Friends, family members, and Sue’s mother helped provide care.
By the time she was about to reach the fourth and final round of treatment, she was very ill. She says, “I was so sick, it was like my insides were lit up like a Christmas tree.”
Even so, she intended to complete the full course of treatment. Then, while lying alone in a hospital bed, she experienced a profound sensation — a voice coming up from her stomach to her ear. Its message was clear: “You will not take one more dose.”
After careful thought and conversations with those around her, Sherry decided not to proceed with the final treatment. The decision wasn’t easy. Sue was deeply worried that stopping treatment could jeopardize her survival. But Sherry felt strongly that her body had reached its limit. “I really do believe that fourth dose would have killed me.”
