by Danielle Tantone | 2:19 pm | Breast Cancer, Faith, Family & Relationships
Today is the second anniversary of the day I received my breast cancer diagnosis. Here’s an excerpt from my upcoming memoir, Believe about the moment when I got the news…
So, as it turns out, the very first person I tell that I have breast cancer is my three-year-old daughter. Which isn’t all that surprising if you know me.
It’s one of those glorious early fall days in Arizona, where the blazing heat is finally starting to lift, and it’s actually cool enough to be at the park in the middle of the afternoon after months stuck inside air-conditioned rooms…
I gently stretch back, close my eyes and turn my head up toward the soft sunlight streaming through the sail shade that sweeps over the playground to protect the kids from the scorching Arizona sun. I breathe in the fresh air and listen for a moment to the birds chirping softly in the distance…
Hugging Arya tightly to my chest, I kiss her sweet soft cheek, and then pick up my phone and snap a selfie of our smiling faces against the backdrop of green grass and blue sky. My reddish-brown hair windswept across my face. The transition lenses in my glasses darkened from the bright sun. A few wrinkles visible on my forehead and by my mouth. A full smile revealing straight white teeth – the product of four years of braces in high school and multiple extractions before that. The tanned olive skin on my perfectly healthy-looking chest slightly pink from the sun’s heat. Our hands gently grasping the swing’s chain. My Iphone’s live mode even captures our gentle swinging in the breeze on this perfect, perfect afternoon. The snapshot mirrors how I’m feeling in this brief slice of time – full of joy, hope, excitement; looking forward with great expectation to whatever may be coming, even though on some level, I already know it’s cancer….
My phone rings. A local number that’s not in my contacts. I answer immediately, thinking maybe it’s SimonMed calling to let me know I can come get the biopsy report now. The moment of calm is gone and I’m back to obsessing about that biopsy.
But it’s Dr. Nakamura, the high-risk breast specialist I’ve been seeing since my first biopsy two years ago. That one revealed a benign mass of hardened milk from breastfeeding.
“You have ductal carcinoma in situ,” she says. “The earliest form of breast cancer.”
I take a breath as my mind races. I ask whatever questions I can think of as I stand incongruously on the wood-chipped playground with my cell phone to my ear. We talk for a few minutes about next steps. She says she’ll work on getting me an appointment with a surgeon in her group and call me back a little later. She says she’s calling from her personal cell phone and I can call her back with any other questions I think of.
The fact that I have the doctor’s personal cell phone number, that she’s working on a Friday afternoon to make sure I get in with the surgeon first thing Monday morning, makes me feel special and just a little scared. Suddenly everything is different, even though I’m standing in the same park from just a moment ago, the same busy, crazy life. Now I have Cancer. Will I keep going to class? Will I keep going to work? Will I be able to take a break from it all?
I know in an instant that if it’s a choice I’m given and covered by my insurance, I will get a double mastectomy. My double D’s have served their purpose – breastfeeding my three baby girls. They have also entertained my husband…and more than a few other boys. I was blessed with really good boobs. But I have no qualms about kissing them goodbye. I’ve heard too many sad stories of women who take care of one breast cancer only to get another one a year later, five years later, 10 years later. I’ve seen too many women die of breast cancer. I’m not going to mess around with it. I won’t take that risk. I don’t need my breasts to live a long, healthy life, and I won’t let them kill me.
Almost exactly 10 years ago, my mom called to tell me her biopsy had revealed early-stage breast cancer. I remember her telling me that it would have been a full five years before those microcalcifications that showed up on her mammogram would have formed into a mass large enough to feel under the skin. That struck me. And I’ve always had mammograms as recommended since then. My mom was fine. And I will be too.
Since they caught her cancer so early, she had a lot of choices in her treatment. She could do just a lumpectomy to take out the cancerous chunk, a single mastectomy of the affected breast, or a double mastectomy. I told her if it was me, I’d chop them both off and get a brand-new set.
But it wasn’t my choice to make 10 years ago. Now it is. And my mind hasn’t changed. I’m ready to say goodbye to my 45-year-old saggy cancer-hiding boobs and replace them with a smaller, perkier set. I’m tired of always monitoring for this hidden danger. I want to be done with it. I’m almost grateful that the uninvited guest has finally arrived at the party, so I can be done waiting, start fighting, and kick that cancer out so fast it won’t know what hit it.
I end the call and look over at my little girl, now gleefully gliding down the slide.
I scoop three-year-old Arya up in my arms and start walking toward the car, still reeling from the news. My mind tries to put together the appropriate sentence to share this news with the important people in my life. I’m outgoing, talkative and direct, but the phrase “I have cancer” doesn’t roll easily off the tongue.
Some people ruminate for weeks over how to tell loved ones – particularly children – their cancer news: how best to word it, how to protect them. But I can’t keep this news inside. This little girl takes baths with me regularly and is constantly asking me all sorts of questions about bodies and how they work. I think for sure she’ll be a nurse or doctor someday. I’ve never seen a kid so fascinated with the human body. She’s seen my boobs a million times, and she came with Mike and I to the biopsy appointment two days ago. She knows I’m waiting for the results about the “ouchie in my boobie.”
My tone is serious but optimistic as I tell her that the doctor just called to tell me that the ouchie in my boobie is in fact, Cancer, the bad stuff we were worried about. I quickly reassure her that it’s good they caught it early and that they will take it out with a surgery, just like the hip surgery I had a few years ago, where they fixed a torn labrum arthroscopically, and the three C-sections where they successfully delivered my three beautiful baby girls into the world.
“Mommy’s going to be just fine,” I say brightly, to reassure us both.
She listens intently and takes in the news with an appropriate frown of sadness, a few questions, but no reason to believe this will dramatically change my life or hers. You get what you expect.
Did I get breast cancer because I was expecting it, monitoring for it? I can’t help but wonder. Was it working the night shift that threw off my circadian rhythm and caused the cells in my breast to mutate? Just last week I learned the specifics about how cancer cells are formed in the human body in my pathophysiology class. And now the black and white terms from the digital online textbook have become personal, invading my own body. Necrosis. Mutation. My cancer is non-invasive, contained in the duct. But that could change quickly. Cancer doesn’t like containment.
I move through my shift at the hospital and the rest of the weekend in a sort of dazed stupor. Outwardly, I smile and laugh and joke. But inwardly I scream, “Don’t you know I just found out I have breast cancer?! How can you expect me to still clean up shit, study patho, act like everything is normal?”
I wish that everyone could just see that I desperately need a hug and someone to listen to me without having to say the words, “I have breast cancer.” I wish they could just tell. I wish I wore a sign on my chest.
And there is also an underlying thought that I have a really minor kind of cancer and maybe I don’t even deserve much sympathy anyway.
I’m not scared of dying, and it’s relatively easy for me to feel optimistic. I see the silver linings, but I still feel panicky and confused – and also so very tired. I wish I could just curl into a little ball and go to sleep for a very long time. And at the same time, I feel led to shout a message of hope from the mountaintops. I have this vague sense of excitement about what’s to come. And I pray that God will use this challenge in some amazing way.
On Monday morning, I walk into the office of my new breast surgeon, Dr. Sommer Gunia, feeling like it’s the first day at a brand-new job, school or adventure. As I prepare myself a cup of tea at the cozy drink station set up in the comfortable lobby, I can’t help but notice the little wooden sign on the table: Cancer touched my breast, I kicked its ass. It makes me smile. I quickly snap a picture of it. Cursing isn’t really my style – never was, even before I was a Christian. But I like the strength of these words, and I like the past tense of the phrase, like it’s already done.
I’m ready for battle. But calm and almost joyful.
by Danielle Tantone | 6:20 pm | Faith, Family & Relationships
1956, Alexandria, Egypt
The wave was bigger than he had anticipated, knocking him off his feet and pushing him down under for a few seconds before carrying him quickly to the shore and spitting him out onto the sand.
At nine years old, Sami wasn’t the tallest kid in his class at the Lycée Francais, but he was strong and stocky. His naturally olive-toned skin was particularly tan after many afternoons at the beach that summer. He could have passed for an Egyptian, but even though the bustling cosmopolitan city of Alexandria, Egypt had been home to his family for generations, they were never considered Egyptian.
Sami emerged from the cool Mediterranean Sea, wiping the foam and sand from his brow as he pulled himself up. He loved everything about the beach: the sand, the water, the people, the colors. He could spend all day there, watching people, surfing the waves, munching on his favorite Caca Chinois candy, running and playing on the sand and in the water, his family’s private cabine serving as a home-base filled with his extended family – cousins, tantes and oncles.
“Sami, viens ici!” his mother called. He looked up to see her walking quickly toward him with a multi-colored towel held out, her shapely bare legs, tan and olive-toned just like Sami’s, emerging from beneath her blue bathing suit, and her rich brown hair pulled up into a colorful scarf. People said Jeanette was beautiful, elegant. But to Sami, she was just his mother.
My father, Roland Sam Malka was an only child, and more than a bit spoiled – un enfant gaté – by anyone’s account. He would hide his toys so he didn’t have to share. One time he went so far as to dig a hole in the ground and bury a toy he didn’t want his cousin Yves to play with. He got a taste of his own medicine when he later went to dig it up and couldn’t find the exact location where he had buried it. But he was charming and sweet, a golden boy with a good heart, so his brattiness didn’t keep his cousins from loving him.
No one ever called him Roland. Maybe it was too hard to pronounce in Arabic. Or maybe Sami just suited his playful personality better. Jeanette – my Nana – tended to coddle him a bit, not in a modern indulgent way, but in an old-world protective way. The only daughter of a wealthy Italian businessman, her family was part of the fabric of Alexandria.
Victor Malka – my Papi – had courted her and they had married, and once he had his son, he had felt no need to further procreate. Jeannette would have liked more children, but she didn’t argue with her husband. That just wasn’t done.
The Malka family lived an upscale life in a gorgeous apartment. Papi was a bank executive at Banque Belge and spoke six languages fluently. He also worked at the racetrack on weekends, helping with the spreads, the charts, the numbers. The only boy in a family with seven children, born right in the middle of his six sisters, he served as the patriarch of the family, making sure everyone was taken care of and that they all knew he had it all under control. He was also a charming ladies’ man, the life of any party, and there were many in the vibrant metropolitan city of Alexandria in the 1940s and 50s. It was an international hub of activity, life and culture. The Europeans who lived there enjoyed a peaceful co-existence with the Arabs. They spent their leisure time at the cinema, cafes, French patisseries. At the Alexandria Sporting Club, they played squash, tennis, cricket and golf, and enjoyed horseback riding and gambling. They spent weekends at the beach year-round, relishing in the mild climate.
Jews and non-Jews alike, the Europeans were welcome guests in Egypt. They ran the banks, the shops, the cinema, the racetrack. But despite the fact that Egypt was their home, their passports were French, Italian, British, etc. Some of them were technically apatride – stateless. They were neither Egyptian nor European, nor Israeli. They were children of the world.
At home and school, Sami’s family spoke mostly French, but they were part of a multireligious, multicultural and multiethnic environment. Abdul – the family’s servant who felt more like a big brother or an uncle – had taught Sami some Arabic.
The Malkas were among some 80,000 Jews who lived in Cairo and Alexandria, but they were not particularly religious. They followed the traditions of their faith quietly alongside their Muslim and Christian neighbors. Each of them worshipped with their families – Muslims at the mosque, Catholics at the cathedral, Jews at the synagogue – Eliahu Hanavi – Elijah the Prophet – a beautiful, intricately carved Italian-built structure at the heart of the city on Nebi Daniel Street. And each different group would wait outside for their friends from the other religions to complete their mass or service and then they would gather together at someone’s home to sing and dance until late at night.
Kids rode their bikes in the streets. Everyone knew everyone, and they all respected one another. They were integrated, but not assimilated. Each group kept their unique identity, even though they were friends. Intermarriage among the different religions was rare.
The Europeans didn’t feel like foreigners. Egypt was their country. You could hear a mixture of languages in the streets. At the cinema, movies were played in their original language – English or Arabic usually, with French subtitles, so everyone could speak at least a little of several languages.
Back at the beach cabine, Abdul served Sami some macaroni au four, a baked macaroni and cheese dish he had prepared at home, the perfect comfort after his tumble in the sea. There was never a shortage of food in Sami’s family. They enjoyed frequent large family dinners together and even when they just popped by to visit, his aunts, who all lived close by, would bring out platters of nuts and dried fruit, coffee cake, phyllo stuffed with spinach and cheese, feta cheese, olives and other Mediterranean foods. And his mother did the same when guests showed up in their home. Not being hungry was not an acceptable answer. It was considered impolite to refuse to eat. Il faut manger quelque chose.
It was a beautiful life in Alexandria, a golden age for younger and older people alike, the perfect playground for a young adventurous boy.
Sami was blissfully unaware that Alexandria had been changing for years now, that the peaceful coexistence the Jews and Europeans had enjoyed with the Arabs for so many years was coming to an end.
Politically, the Jews of Egypt had always leaned toward the left – with Zionism, socialism and even communism attractive ideals after the oppression of World War II.
Egypt was part of an Arab military coalition that attacked the newborn Jewish state of Israel in 1948, and an anti-Zionist movement began to form. Jews who were believed to be connected with Zionist groups were arrested, thrown in jail or thrown out of the country. The political climate was changing quickly and some families decided to flee, knowing they were on the blacklist. Papi never talked about politics, but I get the impression his views were more moderate. Eventually, though, that didn’t matter.
There was political corruption in the Egyptian monarchy and a new Republic of Egypt was established in 1953. A revolution against all foreigners – particularly British and French – began to sweep the nation. Fires burned through the city as Egyptians burned down Jewish owned stores, and the beautiful cinemas and cafes symbolic of the British occupation.
The new President, Nasser wanted to nationalize Egypt, claiming ownership of all major assets – factories, fields, buildings, even privately owned companies. He was a charismatic leader who delivered long speeches on the radio. When he decided to nationalize the Suez Canal, which used to be a private company, owned primarily by the French and British, it started the 1956 War.
France and England attacked Egypt, and Israel alongside them, so Egypt began to expel its French and English residents, as well as all Jews, regardless of nationality. First they placed restrictions on importing and exporting, travel, and work permits. They tapped telephone lines, screened personal correspondence. Soon people couldn’t even access their own bank accounts.
Businesses closed, and families left Egypt to head to Brittain, Italy, Spain, France or Israel.
There were rumblings among Sami’s family of leaving. Il faut partir, they’d whisper.
And one night, it was their turn to be evicted from the home they owned, torn from their country, from the only life they had ever known. But even when authorities showed up at their home, garnishing artwork, collectibles, antique furniture, china, cash and jewelry, Jeanette shielded her little boy from the harsh reality of what was happening. When they were told they could each take only one valise, Nana piled layers of clothing onto herself and her son, despite the warm night air, placing valuables in the pockets. Papi hollowed out a large dictionary to hide whatever jewels and money wasn’t confiscated, and entrusted it to Sami to hold onto. For Sami, it was all a fun game, an exciting journey. He wasn’t completely oblivious to the violence and fear, but he never truly worried for their safety, and he had no idea of the horrors and violation that even some of his close family members endured.
They boarded a big ship called The Yugoslavia, and even though it was packed with too many people, Sami didn’t understand that the journey was anything but a glorious adventure. When they arrived in Sardinia, the people threw bread and olives up to the refugees packed onto the ship like sardines.
“Why are they throwing us food?” Sami asked his grandfather. “We play at the beach and have a membership at the country club. We are not peasants.”
They eventually landed in France, staying at a refugee camp in the south for a few months, then moving to Paris where Papi was able to secure a new position with his old company, Banque Belge. My family was among the lucky ones. Despite the traumatic expulsion from Egypt, not speaking the language, and not knowing anything about the local customs and culture, they landed on their feet pretty quickly and began to rebuild from scratch a semblance of the comfortable lifestyle they had enjoyed in Egypt, though they’d never be able to recreate quite the same level of cosmopolitan elegance.
People committed suicide, before and after their departure. Some didn’t want to leave Egypt. They wanted to be buried in their homeland. Others made it to the new country, but living in a refugee camp, they were forced to take entry-level jobs when before they had been heads of companies. Their beautiful life had gone down the toilet like yesterday’s caca.
After about a year in Paris, Papi moved his family to the US, first to New York City and then eventually to the suburbs of Long Island, purchasing a brand new tri-level on a quiet street in Bellmore. Three of his sisters stayed in France and raised their families there. The other three settled in New York, close enough to continue the tradition of large family gatherings. They enjoyed the vast and broad Jones Beach, though it was a far cry from the Alexandrian coast.
My dad had an array of cousins spread out over two continents. The family would always remain close, with a fierce love and a strong bond that I didn’t know was uncommon in families.
By the time they got to Bellmore, my dad started introducing himself as Sam, and he would practice speaking English for hours in front of a mirror, trying desperately to erase all traces of his Egyptian French accent so he could be just like the other kids.
“That’s an interesting accent,” people would say to his parents. “Where are you from?”
They would respond vaguely that they were French, rarely mentioning Egypt, because it was too complicated to explain that they were from Egypt, but not Egyptian.
“Malka, such an interesting name. Is that Italian?” others would ask.
They usually avoided explaining that actually, Malka is the Hebrew word for Queen. It wasn’t that they were embarrassed to be Jewish exactly. They were proud to be Jews, but it had always been a quiet and personal faith, even before it had become a crime just to be Jewish in their home country.
Papi was all about picking yourself up and starting over, focusing on the good. Focusing on his family and their health and safety. He knew that you can’t go back. You must move forward.
In a 2016 documentary called Starting Over Again, my dad’s cousin Yves said, “The Jews of Egypt are one of the best examples of resilience because they survived and adapted all over. We saw our parents fight back after they were humiliated. They stood up and gave us a message of tolerance toward others.”
They loved Egypt, but they were forced to leave it and start over again. They left Egypt, but Egypt never left them, someone else said.
Another Egyptian Jew in the documentary, Alec Nacamuli said, “We have been equipped with tools of understanding and tolerance that at the end of the day could be a bridge to get to the other side.”
This resilience and strength tempered with tolerance and understanding was ingrained in me from childhood, but I never fully realized the drama and the trauma in my family’s expulsion from Egypt, and until I saw that documentary, I didn’t understand how common their story was, how many of us there were. When I watched it, I felt a nostalgia for a place I never even knew.
Even though most Americans have never heard of this “Second Exodus” of the Jews from Egypt, I had heard the story so many times as a kid. I’d always ask questions, wanting to know more, but Nana and Papi gave me only a vague picture, glossing over the horror like it was a cute little parable. They really did just move on, start over and never look back. Papi never even wanted to visit Egypt. America was his homeland now.
My father succeeded in erasing his French accent and becoming a part of the American melting pot, a carefree American guy, popular with the ladies (he did sometimes use the French strategically). And he remained particular about his toys, or really anything that was his. In college he’d hide a quart of gourmet ice cream inside a huge tub that had once held some hideous flavor he knew his roommates would overlook in the freezer. On the surface, he hadn’t changed a bit from the adventurous enfant gaté he had been in Alexandria.
But if you looked closely, you’d notice he had no emotional attachment to the things he seemed to prize more than people – whether electronics or cars, houses or boats, he always held them lightly, happy to sell if he got the right price, excited to move on to the next shiny object. He took meticulous care of his things, but said goodbye to them without a second thought. Because he was always eager to try something new and never one to set down roots, we moved every few years as a kid, which made it hard for me to form attachments and deep friendships, too.
My dad has always avoided emotional life events, anything that might make him feel sad or scared. Though he was married to my mom for more than 20 years, and even still remains close to her after more than 20 years of divorce, he always seemed emotionally unavailable to me. I knew he loved me, but I rarely caught a glimpse of his deepest thoughts and beliefs about life and love.
I wonder, after all these years, if any of his quirky personality is a result of the trauma of being ripped away from his home at nine years old. And as I think of that, I want to give him a big hug and let him know that it’s OK to cry. Sometimes life just really sucks. But it does get better. And I wonder if my own desire to delve right into the messy emotional side of life, my constant search for community and connection, my desire to build a bridge between any two opposing parties, and to always move quickly toward joy and silver linings, never resting too long in sadness, was at least partially formed from this thread of my ancestry running through my own life.
by Danielle Tantone | 6:50 am | Faith, Family & Relationships
Believe. That one little word has always been a powerful and important one in my life. But it took on a whole new level the Monday before Christmas 2003, when I silently asked God if a little Jewish girl from Scottsdale, Arizona could suddenly start believing in Jesus and become a Christian, if it was OK and right for me to do this preposterous thing, how I might actually go about doing it, and most importantly, how I could ever tell my mother.
I was speeding down the I-10 freeway in Phoenix, heading home to the cute little South Scottsdale house my sister and I shared, lost in a thoughtful conversation in my head with God, or some Godlike version of myself. I looked up from my reverie and saw my answer emblazoned on the rear license plate of the car in front of me. BLEEV. Just believe.
OK, I thought. I will. I do. I’ll just believe.
Goosebumps peaked up the flesh on my arms and I took a deep breath, knowing that God himself had just spoken directly to me. That license plate felt like my own burning bush. And every time I have shared that story with a Christian, they get tears in their eyes or chills through their body, so dramatic and miraculous a testimony it is.
But I rarely share the story with the Jewish people in my life, or my nonreligious friends. It’s embarrassing, even heretical to my Jewish upbringing. And realistically, practically, objectively speaking – I know that the license on some random person’s car, which I happened to look up and see at just the moment I asked God what I should do, was a mere coincidence.
But. I have always believed that everything happens for a reason. That God is real. That there are no mere coincidences. That the things that come into our lives and consciousness and have meaning for us are not random, and are meant specifically for us, even if everyone else can see them too. That God is everywhere, and he can and does use signs and tiny miracles, even today in this seemingly un-miraculous time we live in.
There’s a lot more to the story. But I realized that today was the 17th anniversary of the day this happened, the Monday before Christmas, and just thought I’d share this little part of my story. Maybe someday I’ll get to the rest of the story!
The license plate in the picture is actually my license plate today. Mike ordered personalized plates for us both last year and was able to get BLEEEV. (Had to add an extra E since someone else already had BLEEV.) Maybe someone will look up at my license plate and feel a ray of sunshine, hope or inspiration, or get the answer to their question. Just believe. It’s usually a good answer.
