Last night as I was driving home from work I passed by a cancer center which is located on the campus of the hospital that shares the same street as we do. It doesn’t seem like very long ago that my cousin, Stephanie, spent many Monday’s there receiving chemotherapy. If you’ve never been inside a chemo treatment room, it feels like death. Seeing all these balding people looking weak, scared and fragile sitting in recliners with IV’s hooked up to the port in their chest or arm.

Visiting her on treatment days was difficult. I always had this sinking feeling where my heart felt like it was falling. A wave of numbness comes over you and suddenly you feel guilty walking past these people who are fighting for their lives when your biggest problem is deciding where to eat lunch that day. But we did visit her. She would ask us to come because sitting there for hours on end while toxins are poured into your body leaves your mind to wander and the distraction was welcome.

There are good memories from being with her and my aunt; playing cards to pass the time, picking up Olive Garden to eat lunch with her, and my mom bringing her the biggest chocolate bar I’ve ever seen and Stephanie finding it hilarious.

And with the good come the bad; remembering what she looked like with no hair, how her skin would turn red and react to the chemo, and watching her rest her eyes and praying it wouldn’t be forever.

As I drove by tonight the building was lit up and so was the treatment room where we spent several Monday’s. In the shadows I could see the metal IV poles lingering, all waiting for patients to be hooked up to them the next day.

I wonder how many of the cancer patients that have sat in that same recliner are alive today. In some ways the recliner mimics an electric chair. So many people know what is coming. And for those who do make it, they live in fear for the rest of their lives of what might return.

It was 2 years ago today that Stephanie left this Earth for a more peaceful place where she could be healed. A large pink ribbon is hanging from the brick exterior of the cancer center building. It just happens to sit directly above the window of the room we sat with Stephanie in.

My heart is heavy tonight.

*I wrote this almost a year-and-a-half ago after our local newspaper asked for submissions from breast cancer co-survivors.*

When I read in The Courier that they were looking for stories from co-survivors about the impact breast cancer has had on the life of someone looking in, my initial thought was about my cousin, Stephanie Roth, who passed away on April 16, 2005 and her family. As I continued to read it revealed that they were looking for stories about those still living and battling the disease. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case here, but I consider her parents, brother, fiancé, family and friends to be co-survivors, because they must continue to live even without her in their lives.

What The Komen Foundation does for breast cancer and education is wonderful, but why not devote a feature on those who weren’t as lucky. They deserve a tribute most of all. You can dress cancer up in pink, you can highlight survivors whose lives have been affected, and you can show them now with their hair grown back in – but breast cancer is not pretty and it does not always have such a happy ending. Painting a picture of “survivors” shows hope and encouragement, but show me the reality of a woman who’s fighting with every ounce against this ugly monster and still has no real promises for her future. Show me the family who’s still grieving for their daughter, mother, sister, wife, cousin, niece, friend and doesn’t understand why she wasn’t one of these lucky ones. Show me the woman who’s lost everything, her job, her husband, and her friends. That’s where my admiration lies.

Stephanie turned 30 in July 2004. She’d recently been engaged; she had a good job, a beautiful smile and a big heart. What was supposed to be the best years of her life were shortened drastically in September 2004 when she learned she had Inflammatory Breast Cancer. In an instant the hopes and dreams she had of getting married and raising a family changed to how do I survive. Her first symptoms were a red, swollen breast – much like an infection. I recall the two things a doctor kept telling her- 1) You don’t have cancer, you’re too young 2) There’s no lump. When she completed her chemotherapy, another doctor told her this was “just a bump in the road.” Wishful thinking, but it wasn’t quite true.

To say her life and those around her were changed after her diagnosis is an understatement. You can’t put into words what a person goes through when such a thing happens to them or those they love. The fear and devastation is immeasurable. Stephanie was a young, healthy, energetic woman; to explain why it happened to her will never be answered. She never asked why me, she asked what can I do to beat it. After chemo, surgery, and radiation it still wasn’t gone. She’d looked into clinical trials and MD Anderson as options, but wasn’t given the opportunity to keep fighting. A blood clot cut her life short, shorter than any of us ever imagined. Although she’d recently gotten news from her oncologist that the cancer had spread and the outlook was poor, because they’d simply run out of treatments. She kept that information to herself, because sometimes she was more of a support system for us, than we were for her.

A few days before her death, she sent me an e-mail talking about how much her parents and family meant to her. How much support they’d given her. How much she loved them. How many good memories she had as a child. It was great comfort for her parents, but it doesn’t change the fact she didn’t deserve this, no one does. She left us with a brilliant outlook – “We’ve all had a lot of ups and downs. It’s the ups that keep us going and the downs that make us stronger.” We’ll forever remember her vibrance and she’ll always shine on us, not even cancer can take that away.

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African Americans have a higher incidence of IBC and the median age is 52, but it can happen to anyone. Symptoms are not typical of breast cancer, there often isn’t a lump. It can begin as an infection and progress. For more information please visit http://www.ibcresearch.org.