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Authors: Robin Roberts,Veronica Chambers

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BOOK: Everybody's Got Something
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M
y doctors understood that my MDS was most likely caused by the chemotherapy that treated my breast cancer. MDS is a mysterious illness. For many patients, there is never a smoking gun, never an explanation of why their bone marrow had been permanently damaged. But for me, knowing how I had developed MDS was no comfort at all. Instead, it yanked me back—five years into the past—to my breast cancer diagnosis. At the time, I thought
that
was the fight of my life, and I thought it was a fight I had won.

My journey with breast cancer began in July 2007. I was simply stretching my arms when I noticed a lump in my right breast. I thought to myself: “Funny, I don’t remember feeling that when I showered this morning.” I had recently moved full time to New York City and hadn’t found a doctor there yet. My colleague and dear friend Deborah Roberts referred me to her doctor, Albert Knapp. I scheduled an appointment with him for a general checkup, not mentioning the lump in my breast. I know, crazy, right? Perhaps if I didn’t mention the lump, I thought, it didn’t really exist. After all, my mom had repeatedly said: “We’re lumpy people.” My sisters and I had felt lumps over the years and they always turned out to be nothing. But deep down I knew this was different, because it felt different. This time the lump was very hard and didn’t really move when I pushed on it.

Since it was my first visit with Dr. Knapp, he sat with me in his office before examining me. He wanted to know my family history. He has a warm, easygoing nature that put me at ease. It felt as if he had been my doctor for years. Again, I did not mention the real reason why I was there. Later, I was surprised to learn that 80 percent of people diagnosed with breast cancer have no prior family history. Eighty percent! It makes you wonder why there’s so much attention paid to disclosing prior family history.

Dr. Knapp proceeded to examine me—just the basics, a “check under the hood and kick the tires” kind of exam. He was about to leave the examining room when I finally spoke up. “Um, Dr. Knapp, just one more thing before you go—could you check out this lump in my breast?” In the news biz that’s called burying the lead. That was the first thing I should have told him. He gave me a breast exam and immediately ordered a mammogram and an ultrasound. I walked a couple of blocks to the radiology center. Since it was the end of the day, I was told, if I could wait they would squeeze me in. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard stories of others having to wait months for a routine mammogram. I’m told if you have a lump, most places around the country will make an exception and see you in a more timely fashion. I believe in being patient and persistent. That is especially true when it comes to your health.

My mammogram came back normal. Good thing Dr. Knapp also ordered the ultrasound. As the technician was performing it, Dr. Mona Darwish, the attending physician, watched the screen. She has an extensive background in breast cancer work, and her trained eye picked up a tumor that had not been detected with the mammogram. It’s not unusual for that to happen. This is especially true for young women whose denser breast tissue makes it harder to detect abnormalities. I can’t stress how important it is for younger women and those with a high risk for breast cancer to have ultrasounds.

Dr. Darwish told me she wanted to do a core biopsy. I just wanted to get out of there. I was tired and hungry. It had already been a long day. When I asked her if we could do it another time, she gently squeezed my hand and said, “Why don’t we just take care of this right now.” Truth be known, if I had gotten off the examining table, there’s no telling when I would have come back. Dr. Darwish was patient and persistent. (Sound familiar?) I agreed to have the biopsy—a memorable experience, to say the least. I’m not a fan of needles, especially one being inserted into my breast. Dr. Darwish said she would get the results back as soon as she could.

After
GMA
the following morning, I flew to Atlanta for an assignment. As the plane pulled up to the gate, I turned on my BlackBerry and cell phone. There was an e-mail from my then assistant, Ayana, saying that Dr. Knapp’s office had called, and I needed to answer my cell phone because he would be trying to reach me. Just as I finished reading Ayana’s message, my phone rang. It was Dr. Knapp. He asked if there was any way I could come to his office. I told him I was on the road and to please just give me the news now. He didn’t want to but I insisted. I was still in my seat on the plane when he gave me the test results. “Robin, it’s cancer.”

I know he said more than that, but to me it sounded like the adults talking in a
Peanuts
cartoon. “Wawppp, wawppp, wawppp…CANCER…wawppp, wawppp, wawppp.” I do recall agreeing to have a breast MRI the next day in New York and to meet with a breast surgeon.

There is no way to prepare yourself to hear the words:
You have cancer.
Trust me, it’s less than ideal to be sitting on a plane when you hear it. After all, in the movies when you learn you have cancer you’re seated in the doctor’s office holding a loved one’s hand. I was all by myself, surrounded by strangers, about to get off a plane in Atlanta. When I boarded in New York I was just Robin. Now I was Robin with breast cancer. My eyes started to fill with tears, and I put on sunglasses so no one would notice.

A driver was waiting to take me to Pine Mountain, Georgia. I wanted to call Amber. We’d been dating less than two years at that point. I also wanted to call my family and friends to let them know I had cancer. But I didn’t want the driver to know what was going on, because I wasn’t ready for the public to learn about my diagnosis. I’d only had minutes to digest it myself. The driver could not have been nicer, but he was also a bit inquisitive, and I knew he’d be listening in on my conversation. So I played a little guessing game with my loved ones. “Remember how I told you I was going to have that thing checked out?” I asked, in a quivering voice. “What do you think I found out?” I guess my tone was a dead giveaway. They knew. They’d been praying for the best, but were prepared for the worst. And here it was. The Big C.

Revealing my diagnosis to Amber and my family was difficult. I remember in particular telling Sally-Ann. She was just back in her flood-damaged home that had taken nearly two years to rebuild following Hurricane Katrina. I called Sally-Ann and she sounded so happy. She was in her car at the drive-thru of the newly rebuilt Popeye’s near her neighborhood in New Orleans. (We both like two pieces of white meat—spicy—with french fries.) When I told Sally-Ann I had bad news she got out of line and parked her car. Then I took a deep breath and I told my oldest sister that I had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Willie, her college sweetheart and husband of twenty-five years, had died of colon cancer the day before Thanksgiving in 2002. I could hear the fear in her voice that she could lose me, too.

What is so remarkable about that day is that in the midst of being scared and shaking with my personal crisis, I could become so uplifted and inspired by bearing witness to someone else’s tragedy. As my mom always said, everybody’s got something. I was in Pine Mountain to interview Michael and Jeri Bishop, whose only son, Jamie, had been killed a few months earlier in the horrific shootings that took place at Virginia Tech in 2007. Jamie had been a beloved teacher there, and his parents were still numb with grief. Nevertheless, they had agreed to talk to me for a story that would air the first day the students returned to campus in Blacksburg.

The Bishops are such lovely people. They welcomed me into their home and fed me delicious cherries. Their warmth touched me, and it was all I could do not to collapse into their arms and cry, “I have cancer.” But I pulled myself together. They had lost their son in one of the most tragic ways imaginable. I was there to comfort them.

The Bishops spoke so eloquently and movingly about Jamie. When I asked them what they wanted the students returning to know, Jeri said, “I want them to know that they are in the right place at the right time.” Her comment was in reference to President George W. Bush’s words during a memorial service that the thirty-two people killed were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Bishops felt that despite the tragedy, their incredible son had been where he was supposed to be. He was a passionate teacher making a difference in countless lives.

I hugged the Bishops good-bye and got back in the car to return to the airport. I was desperate for some privacy. All I wanted was to get home. But wouldn’t you know it, my flight was delayed, and it was almost 11 p.m. before I walked through my front door. I crumbled like an accordion on my couch and had a good long cry. Something I had wanted to do ever since I heard Dr. Knapp utter those words almost twelve hours earlier.

 

The next day I had a breast MRI, and Amber went with me to meet my surgeon, Lauren Cassell. She’s the absolute best: a little dynamo in designer dresses and killer high heels, a force of nature, adored by all her patients. Dr. Cassell clearly explained the situation to me. My tumor appeared to be a little more than two centimeters. During surgery she would also check my lymph nodes. I barely have a scar thanks to her brilliant work. More important, she expertly removed my tumor and got clean margins the first time. She spends countless hours reviewing X-rays and images of the breast. She’s gifted in knowing how much beyond the tumor to remove. Cancerous tumors are tricky, because it’s not just removing the tumor but also any minute particles it may leave behind. Many patients have to go back a second or third time because the surgeon didn’t get enough. Not the case with Lauren Cassell.

I endured many months of chemotherapy and radiation. I remember when my hair started to fall out from the chemo. My beloved mother was staying with me. She wanted to be with her baby girl when I began treatment. Two weeks after my first dose of chemo my hair started coming out in clumps. Momma was in my kitchen cooking her world-famous collard greens. I went to her bawling my eyes out, holding chunks of my hair. She sweetly comforted me with one arm, while stirring her collards with the other. I don’t think she wanted me to get too close to her pot of delicious greens. I cherish that memory.

 

Amber, my dear siblings and friends were there for me every step of the way. Diane Sawyer was a constant source of comfort. We always have each other’s backs. In fact, to celebrate my last chemo treatment, Diane snuck in some Popeye’s chicken for me—she has a knack for knowing exactly what you want. Diane also knew my mind was always racing and so I had a hard time sleeping. She would send me a message late at night and tell me: “You can get some rest, I’ll take it from here, I’m on watch now.”

My emotions were all over the map. I was scared, angry, confused and even embarrassed. Yes, I said “embarrassed.” How could I have cancer? I prided myself on being health conscious and athletic. Would people think I had done something wrong? Did I think I had done something wrong? A million questions raced through my bewildered mind, and none of them had answers.

Later answers did come, and the most lasting one came from my mother, who urged me to use my diagnosis to raise awareness about the importance of mammograms and early detection. “Make your mess your message,” Momma liked to say. And I did.

The video diary that I made of my hairstylist, Petula, shaving my head after chemo started causing my hair to fall out in clumps touched millions of viewers. I had worn a wig on
GMA
, because I didn’t want my baldness to distract from the stories I was covering.
People
magazine was about to publish a story about my battle with cancer. The article would include never-before-seen pictures of me bald. I didn’t want
GMA
viewers to think I had been keeping something from them, that I was ashamed of my bald head. Instead I felt that my baldness and all it represented could become an important part of the story—another way of reaching out to others who had faced cancer. Do you know that some women actually refuse to be treated for fear of losing their hair? In the words of my friend India Arie: “Hey, I am not my hair. I am not this skin. I am a soul that lives within.” I wanted to make a statement that I wasn’t ashamed to have cancer or be bald. I was absolutely stunned by the reaction to my video diary. The outpouring of support was overwhelming.

Not long after my video diary, I ran into a woman at Bitz-n-Pieces; it’s a wig store in New York. It’s really much more than that. The talented people who work there are like little angels. Many clients are there looking for answers at difficult times in their lives. This particular woman and I were bringing our wigs in for tune-ups. She said I had given her the strength to talk to her friends and her colleagues about her illness. I was thrilled for her, because I knew she was now opening herself up to a source of great comfort. She said she had hidden her illness from them for fear that they would treat her differently. But her friends had seen that I was still able to work, and that gave her the courage to speak openly.

Midway through my treatments, I was at the White House to do an interview with President Bush’s press secretary, Tony Snow. He had recently revealed he was facing cancer for a second time. While there I was told that the First Lady, Laura Bush, wanted to see me in the private residence for tea. Mrs. Bush has a family history of breast cancer. She personally invited me to accompany her on a portion of an international breast cancer initiative with the Susan G. Komen Foundation, and I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. My doctors cleared me to travel—although getting my mom’s blessing was far more difficult. Remember, I was in the middle of chemo treatments. I spent time with Mrs. Bush in Abu Dhabi and Dubai, in the UAE and in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I met some incredible women on the trip. Breast cancer is the number one killer of women in the UAE. Many succumb because the stigma surrounding the disease in that part of the world prevents them from seeking early detection.

Cancer forced me out of my comfort zone. But the reality is that in life, there are no true comfort zones. Life comes at us in ways that we can’t predict or control. My breast cancer battle taught me that, more than almost any other challenge I had faced to date. By the time I was cancer free, I was confident that I’d gotten the lessons and I’d done the work that had been my spiritual assignment. Cancer was nothing more than a chapter in my life’s story. It would never
be
my life’s story.

BOOK: Everybody's Got Something
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