Granger mom offers honest account of how cancer consumed her life and how she defeated it

Jessica Murphy of Granger was 41 years old when she was diagnosed with stage 3 colorectal cancer in February 2019. The Beacon patient, wife and mom wrote an open and honest account about “living cancer” and how she changed after radiation, chemo and surviving the disease. This is an edited version of the story she shared at a community event called the Mamalogues.

Jessica Murphy of Granger.

What is one word to describe cancer? Consuming.

It consumes your morning coffee, date night with your husband, your drive to work, your texts to friends and family, and every glance you share with your kids. The life you knew, the one consumed by soccer schedules, clarinet practices, Friday Sippers with your girls, work deadlines, and family dinners are swallowed whole by the diagnosis.

We all just run through our lives as quickly as we can, like we are sprinting, preparing our mom lists and crossing the items off as we go.

Cancer was not on my list.

Cayman Island vacation was. Meal planning was. Martin’s was. Cleaning out the pool fridge was. Cancer wasn’t.

But at that moment, the hum of the world disappeared and there was a calming stillness. A peace I have never experienced.

***

It had been two days since my colonoscopy and biopsy, and we were happily standing in our friends’ kitchen. I felt my phone vibrate. I missed Dr. Zuhair Yaseen’s call. I listened to the message requesting I call him. The Beacon Health gastroenterologist had given me his cell phone number.

“Jess, it’s malignant.”

After those three words, the silence in my head was deafening. I was standing outside on the front step to take the doctor’s call. I slowly walked back into the hustle and bustle of the happy kitchen when my husband’s and my eyes met. I shook my head.

It began with blood in my stool in August of 2018. Of course, I just chalked it up as a diet issue, so I started eating more fiber. I had a wellness appointment in November, but was too busy to make it so I rescheduled it for after the holidays.

That January, I went in for my wellness exam. I have a couple concerns: Yes, I know I should lose weight, I’m having issues with my carpal tunnel, and I’ve consistently seen blood in my stool. A colonoscopy was scheduled.

Due to my symptoms, my age — 41 — and no family history, it could be hemorrhoids.

The biopsy told us differently and now we were in “go” mode.

***

Jessica Murphy with her husband, Mike, and children, Ben and Anna.

I sat at my computer, not being able to Google one sentence: How do you tell your kids their mom has cancer?

It was on a Saturday three weeks later. We all were in our Saturday morning fog. I had my hot cup of coffee, my favorite sip of the day. I planned a syrupy feast and decided around our family table is where we would break the news. We all have that one table that we pray at, feast at, discuss our accomplishments and worries, blow out our birthday candles, and where you let your kids know their mom has cancer.

We decided to be honest and let them know the good news.

The good news is it is curable. The good news is your schedules will not change. The good news is I am young. The good news is we caught it early. The good news is we have a tribe of support to help our family.

I handed them bags of blue bracelets in support of colon cancer to give to teachers, friends, our tribe – the army of people who overwhelm us with love. The people who don’t run away but run to you with meals, supportive texts, drives to the orthodontist because I’m in an anesthesia fog. Drives to chemo, drives to radiation.

***

On the first day of radiation and chemo, I jumped in the shower and cried.

It was the first time since my diagnosis that I just felt sorry for myself. I spent the morning sulking at work as I was not going to hide from this emotion.

The car ride was as quiet as the Indiana landscape that passed me by. I don’t remember my thoughts, I just remember the need to feel cold air. We parked, I stepped out of the car and we walked into Dr. Samuel McGrath’s office at Memorial Hospital, for radiation. A walk that eventually would become routine.

Next, the oncology center. Just the word chemo scares people and I knew I wanted to approach it with a fighter’s attitude when I really just wanted to run out the door. Infusion centers are decorated with pink ribbons and the word “fighter” or sayings like, “She knew she could , so she did.” Those words and sayings we have all heard a thousand times, but I had never felt the weight of them until there was no other choice.

Prior to cancer, my feet would hit the ground running. After cancer, getting in the shower is effort. You stand there half in and half out. You don’t want your chemo pump or ileostomy to get wet. I will focus on the things I can do today, I would mutter to myself. 

***

We learn to use certain words to describe cancer patients: survivor, warrior, hero, the strongest person I know. I continue today to struggle embracing those words.

My cancer path was a burden, a consuming “have to.” I truly don’t want to take those words away from those who need them, but I do not relate to any of them, especially survivor. I did not survive cancer, I LIVED cancer as all cancer patients do. Aren’t all patients survivors?

I also don’t think it is just the cancer patient who deserves such powerful adjectives. My husband does for always getting the leftovers, or my mom for traveling miles to sit by my chemo chair, or my dad with his never-ending texts, or my sister for all the check-in phone calls, or my friends who managed the good, the bad and the ugly. We focus so much on the cancer patient that we forget to see the army behind them, helping, cleaning, hugging, supporting.

In my opinion, they are the strongest people I know.

***

Ben, Anna, Jessica and Mike Murphy.

Everyone has tips about getting through cancer. What to eat during cancer, methods and tips to help during your diagnosis, standard protocols are discussed and treatment schedules.

What they don’t talk about is the end. About living with cancer after it’s over because the disease may not be in my body, but the aftermath sits like a storm. You are different, I am different. I emotionally look at the world with a whole new clarity, with a strong need to reflect. But I also sit in a pool of relief.

The aftermath forces you to give it your attention and honestly, I struggle with it. The changes it made to my body, the quarterly tests it requires, the neuropathy that sits in my toes and fingers, the 12 scars on my body, the daily stress of its plague. The guilt of being the word I hate: survivor.

Again, the guilt of being a survivor. Why me? Why was I lucky? Why did I defeat cancer?