Time to Heal

Photo by Matt Porteous

As much as I may have enjoyed playing the armchair detective game, "Where in the World is Princess Kate?", I had great empathy when I watched the young and beautiful future queen announce her cancer diagnosis. Like most women, she had long tread carefully along the thin line that is work/life balance, albeit one played out in the glare of paparazzi cameras. Now, Kate was carrying an extra burden that could tip the whole thing over, her health, and I knew just how she felt.

"I look forward to being back when I am able, but for now, I must focus on making a full recovery," Kate told the world, bravely acknowledging that she would not be able to carry out her royal duties while undergoing treatment.

Yes, I did say bravely. Even with all the privileges that Kate enjoys, admitting that work is going to take a back seat to your cancer treatment can be one of the biggest hurdles cancer patients need to face.

I had had my own struggles with work and life, often tipping the line way over to work, when I received my own cancer diagnosis. I hoped to continue walking that line and keep everything moving until it came tumbling down.

The crash came shortly after I attended an awards luncheon at the Waldorf-Astoria for the New York Women in Communications annual award luncheon. My boss had invited me and a handful of other senior-level women at our public relations agency, and I was pleased that I had risen high enough in the ranks to earn my seat at the table. But I was particularly excited that I was able to attend that year because one of the honorees was the Good Morning America anchor, Robin Roberts. 

Robin was diagnosed with breast cancer eight months earlier and had been sharing her experience with her audience. I had been watching Good Morning America for decades and was in awe of her strength as she managed her disease. I was in even greater awe when, three months after Robin's announcement, I, too, was diagnosed with the disease. Since Robin, like me, was forty-seven years old at the time, I felt even more kinship to her. She became my bellwether for what to expect in the months ahead.

Sitting around the table at the luncheon, I listened as Robin talked about her accomplishments since her diagnosis. She spoke proudly of a trip she had taken to Saudi Arabia while she was in the middle of chemo treatment, having been asked to join then-First Lady Laura Bush as part of a breast cancer awareness campaign. She talked about what it took to go on the air every day to interview politicians and celebrities while feeling the effects of her treatment. By the luncheon, Robin had stopped wearing a wig and looked beautiful with her closely cropped hair, well-fitting sheath dress, and black patent leather pumps. The luncheon speech was the first of many times I heard her say she was making her mess her message.

I, on the other hand, was simply a mess. I had worn my own well-fitted sheath dress but, with the extra few pounds women with breast cancer often gain, it was a little more fitted than I would have liked. I, too, wore elegant black patent leather pumps, but only after I switched out of the sneakers I wore to manage the short walk to the hotel from my office. One of the side effects of chemotherapy was neuropathy, a painful tingling sensation in the soles of my feet. My wig itched terribly, and hot flashes sent rivulets of sweat down my face. As Robin talked about scaling new heights, all I wanted to do was climb into bed. I glanced at my bosses' and colleagues' faces as they listened to Robin's tale of bravery and wondered if they expected me to do the same. 

It was my decision to continue working through my treatment. I had been offered the opportunity to take a leave of absence, but I chose to take intermittent leave instead. Intermittent leave allowed me to take off an allotted number of days for doctor appointments and treatments and earn my usual salary. I chose that option not because of some great drive to keep my career moving upward but because of a need for my life to remain as normal as possible. 

For the first few months, it worked out great. During the toughest part of my chemo treatment, I went to the hospital every two weeks on Wednesdays for my infusions and took Thursdays and Fridays off to recuperate. When those days were combined with the weekends, I had enough time to rest and be ready to work on the following Monday. 

When I switched to a new chemo drug that would be administered every week for the next twelve weeks, I switched to a new schedule: chemo on Fridays, weekend rest, and back to work on Monday. I had a few colleagues who had changed to a four-day workweek so that they could spend more time with their kids. This wouldn't be so different. 

Well, that was the theory anyway. 

Working in public relations was never a nine-to-five gig, but I found myself juggling harder than a clown performing three shows a day. I shifted from conference calls with clients to calls from concerned family and friends. I scheduled meetings with my team in between appointments with doctors. I drafted proposals and reports by day and wrote letters to nonpaying insurers at night. I knew I could drop a ball at any moment. 

As the weeks and months passed, a thick blanket of exhaustion weighed me down as I tried to trudge through the days.

 One afternoon, I was in a meeting with one of the agency's partners, who had become a good friend.

"Ilene," she called, slightly louder than usual. "You're sleeping."

"Huh? What?" I said, trying to shake off the fog that had enveloped my brain. "No, I'm here. I'm listening."

"You had your eyes closed, and I don't think you heard a word I said. Why don't you go home and get some rest? Tomorrow, we can talk about adjusting your schedule. Your health is more important than this place."   

As I leaned my head against the window of the taxi I took home, happy to feel the cool air against my cheek, I wondered if this was how Robin Roberts left Good Morning America. 

The following day, I came into the office and called the benefits manager based in our Pittsburgh audience. We had never met in person but had become quite close as she helped me navigate company policy.

As soon as I said, "Cindy, I think I need to cut back my hours. I'm exhausted and can't keep up," a weight lifted off my shoulders.

"I expected that," Cindy said. "Let's talk about getting you down to three work days a week for the next few months. Would that help?"

It did. It was time for me to realize that, unlike Robin Roberts, I did not have a team of people to put me together every morning for the two hours I would be on air. My colleagues had been helpful, but when I started to get calls that started with "I know you're at chemo, but…", I knew I needed to set boundaries. I needed to be more like Kate. I could return to the career I loved, but not until I was healthy enough to do so.

Ilene Smith is a former journalist turned public relations turned writer.