MARIN MAN TO MAN: REFECTIONS
OF A FEW TYPICAL MEMBERS
(AND PARTNERS)

The following reflections were supplied voluntarily by members of Marin-Man-to-Man and their partners. They were un-edited for content. No members or partners are required to "go public" via this Web site, through our Speakers' Bureau or any other way and all information discussed at the weekly meetings of our support group are confidential.

Marv Edelstein / Maria

Marv -- My wife, Maria, was diagnosed with breast cancer in November of '92. Throughout the myriad of tests, biopsies, etc. I remained the complete optimist. There was no way that Maria had breast cancer; it just wasn't an option. This bubble was burst by one look at the face of our friend Ron, the pathologist who read the slides from her final biopsy.

The next few weeks were total chaos. Meetings with oncologists, treatment options, information overload, drug studies, panic, denial. Much of it remains little more than a blur. During that period we were joined at the hip, seeking information, making decisions, trying to keep our imaginations from going to dark places.

After what seemed like an eternity, all of the decisions had been made and Maria began treatment which in her case consisted of a lumpectomy, chemotherapy (CAF) and radiation. The whirlwind ended almost as abruptly as it had begun. Maria's life centered around her treatment and all of the side effects that came with it. She joined a support group which proved to be a tremendous resource for her. I soon found myself along the sidelines, wanting to help and be supportive, but becoming more and more frustrated by the inability to do anything, or worse yet to do anything right.

It was during this period that Bill Bowersock, whose wife was in the same support group as Maria, came up with the idea of starting a support group for men whose wives or partners had breast cancer. When I first heard about it my immediate reaction was stereotypically male: support group? I don't need no stinkin' support group. Fortunately Bill was very persuasive, and not being able to come up with a legitimate reason to say no, I agreed to join in. That was over 10 years ago, and I'm still making it to the weekly meeting. Believe me, it's not for the food.

My initial hesitation proved to be completely unwarranted. This wasn't the TV sitcom style group therapy session I dreaded; no one was going to ask "and how does that make you feel?" Instead, it was a group of guys who were (or had been) in the same place I was, complete with all of the unknowns, frustrations, worries, etc. It was a place to ask questions, get answers to questions I hadn't thought to ask, and find comfort in the realization that what I was experiencing was no different than what everyone else was going through. It helped me get through one of the most difficult periods of my life, and continues to provide an outlet for fears that surface every time Maria experiences a strange pain or ailment, or a friend experiences a recurrence.

Maria -- My husband Marv has been part of Man to Man since its inception in 1994. At that time, with some hesitation, he thought it might be beneficial to talk with other men whose partners were going through a breast cancer diagnosis and treatment. As the years have ensued Marv has continued as an ever present member of Man to Man. His dedication to this group as a support and mentor to other men as well as a recipient of ongoing, caring, safe, non-judgmental support, helps us in our life situations, whether breast cancer-related or not.

I can sincerely say that Man to Man has helped Marv and I through some really tough times when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Receiving confirmation of his fears, thoughts and actions helped us be healing partners. We continue to be on a growing and healing journey and I honestly feel that his participation in Man to Man has helped enable us to continue in this direction.

Dan Goltz / Carol

Dan -- It was Christmas Eve, 1997. Carol and I were busily preparing for a dinner party. Son David and his wife's family were our guests. Five p.m., everything was ready, and Carol was ready to dress for the party. The phone rang. Carol answered it. She greeted the caller, and then listened to her oncologist tell her, "You have one positive lymph node."

What a night. Little did I know that this was the beginning of a new phase in our life. The lumpectomy, node dissection, chemo and radiation hit like a tornado, whirling us into a terrible depression. Carol suffered the pain and discomfort, but I felt the ever-present fear that my wonderful wife could die. It was devastating.

After months of my depression, Carol told me about Marin Man to Man. Knowing that I was not a joiner, she urged me to see what it was all about. I knew that I needed to do something, so a couple of Wednesdays later, I showed up at Denny's full of apprehension about meeting new people, who I assumed would be as miserable as I was.

But it wasn't that way at all. Since I had called ahead, they were expecting me, and they gave me a warm welcome. To my surprise, I was able to talk freely about how I felt. The other men listened, asked questions and gave me advice. They were warm and friendly, giving me my first gleam of hope that maybe things could turn out OK.

I was sold on this new experience of telling people how I felt about a very intimate and personal problem.

In the last five years, I have seldom missed "our feast," as John Teasley calls it. That is a good description of these few hours we get together. Although Denny's food is not exactly "feast fare," we enjoy a feast of ideas, humor, caring, comradeship and support.

Marin Man to Man helped me live through a very low point and my life. But more importantly, I have made wonderful lasting friendships.

Carol -- From the moment Dan learned of my diagnosis, he apparently took charge of his own emotions and became my staunchest ally. He accompanied me to doctors' appointments, waited patiently during my lumpectomy, and even brought roses to me in the outpatient surgical ward. He was there for the radical node dissection, he was my buddy for each chemotherapy session, and he made sure everything was being done correctly for the beginning radiation sessions.

However he must have felt isolated during those times; after all, I was getting all the attention and he really had no one else in whom to confide. One day as I was leaving my radiation appointment, I noticed a flyer for meetings of a group with husbands with wives with breast cancer. Now Dan had never been in a support group, but I thought he might consider this one. And what a surprise; he went to the very next meeting, and has continued going regularly every week.

I was surprised and pleased at his reaction to the group. He found great support, and discovered to his delight that the guys didn't spend all their time moaning about their wives. He came home full of juicy tidbits about the lives of these hitherto-unknown men, and clearly was buoyed by contacts with them. Eventually one of the wives suggested a pot-luck dinner so the wives could meet each other also, and that evening was a night to remember. We could laugh at the same grotesque jokes, and realized once again that we were not alone.

Dan has made close friends in the group, and so have I. I recently reached the five-year mark after the end of treatment, and our friendships with the people in this group are still strong. Dan continues to go to the Wednesday morning breakfast meetings regularly, and I imagine he will do so for a long time. I can't think of a more healing process for any man whose wife or partner has breast cancer. Friendly and genuine group support just takes all the fear out of the situation, and hey -- if guys want to talk about sports or cars or politics, that's also great support.

Peter Matthes

Peter -- My wife, Cheryl, was diagnosed with breast cancer 10 years before she died (in 2002), after being given 5 years as the likely survival span.

She had always been healthy and active, with the body and activity-level normal to her ballet performing and teaching career. She had experienced recurring benign breast cysts prior to the shocking cancer diagnosis immediately after what she expected would be another routine removal of some cysts. There was also some lymph node invasion.

A single mastectomy, followed by chemotherapy and radiation, was the protocol chosen, along with the newly promising drug Tamoxifin.

She was able to continue her normal dance, family and social activities for the next seven years, when the cancer metabolized to (but not into) spinal bones. A year later, several internal organs were involved, and the debilitating effects of the disease took a toll on her body and psyche.

It is difficult for me to recount this very emotional time in our lives -- particularly as I move forward to make a new start, while honoring and recalling the positive attitude she was able to project. She was very active in internet cancer chat rooms, making contact and many friends facing the same challenges. One lady was even inspired to fly from her home in New Mexico to ours in Atlanta for a weekend.

From my observation, I would strongly suggest that cancer patients become involved in similar chat rooms -- the interaction and information were of priceless value to Cheryl.

When I moved to Marin over a year ago, I read about Man to Man in the paper and wished there had been something like it when facing the draining cancer decade in Atlanta. The men in our group share a current challenge, but bring information, ideas and support to all who attend.

If you have or are close to a lady with breast cancer, Man to Man could help fill a need that you also face. Come join us at a meeting and see what I mean.

John Sundberg

Companionship, Hope and Reality.

John -- The Marin Man to Man support group for men whose wives have breast cancer entered my life one Wednesday morning just before my wife, Carol, was to begin chemotherapy for inflammatory breast cancer, an extremely aggressive form of breast cancer. I joined the group for breakfast at Denny's. Before breakfast arrived I asked the group what chemotherapy was really like. I wanted to know their experiences. What I heard upset and scared me so much that I could hardly breathe, much less eat my breakfast. They told me what I needed to hear, what no one else could tell me. I really appreciated their honesty. I needed to stop living in the "it's not happening to me" world and face the reality of chemotherapy and breast cancer, so that I could be there to support my wife.

This healthy dose of reality helped me accept the fact that the cancer Carol had would change our lives forever. And I realized that we only had four days left before the chemotherapy would begin. I took the next four days off from work and spent them with Carol getting ready for the treatment and the side effects of the treatment. But we also spent time together just holding each other, walking on the beach, and talking about our hopes and dreams together. When chemotherapy started, our lives were never the same again.

The battle against Carol's breast cancer was horrendous. She went through multiple chemotherapy treatments, a mastectomy, and numerous radiation treatments for about a year and a half. During this time I continued to attend my breakfast support group once a week. I needed the companionship, hope and reality provided by the group, who had all been through the same experiences I was going through. The group had good ideas about medical treatments and opinions about local doctors and hospitals. Best of all, I could just be myself in the group. I could be discouraged, frustrated or angry and it was OK. One of the members of the group even came to sit with me in the hospital during Carol's mastectomy.

Unfortunately, the treatments were unsuccessful and Carol died in the Spring of 1998. The group was there with me at Carol's memorial service. And I kept going to the weekly breakfasts for several years. They invited me to their homes for dinner and helped me begin to feel alive again.

Recently I moved to the country and took an early retirement from work. I do not make it to the morning breakfasts any longer. But once or twice a year, I attend a reunion and we have a grand time sharing about our lives.

This group of courageous men helped me find the courage and strength to make it through an extremely difficult battle with breast cancer and the loss of Carol. I feel very fortunate to have had this support group and to have known these special guys.

John Teasley

Big boys don't cry

John -- Mary, a co-worker many years ago, was diagnosed and treated for breast cancer. Being a Texas bred male, I was taught to ask no personal questions nor show any emotions. I foolishly assumed that since Mary returned to work and looked OK, she would be fine. In casual encounters, we skirted any discussion of her illness, but she continued to stress her good health, strong family/friends support, and she constantly exuded happiness. A couple of years later I received information on her funeral arrangements.

Chris, another co-worker of years past, was diagnosed and treated for skin cancer. We likewise skirted the health issues while maintaining a casual friendship. Jill, my survivor, and I attended Chris and Peter's wedding. The love and devotion, probably increased by the cancer ordeal, was obvious and endearing.

Jill awoke one morning with a pain in her breast. Not overly concerned (breast cancer does not hurt -- so they say), she called the doctor. "Not to worry," he said, "you probably strained something. Give it a couple of weeks." Two weeks later she was in for a needle biopsy, which proved inconclusive. Next came the surgical biopsy, delayed once, allowing us a very stressful Christmas holiday. The surgical results were conclusive -- breast cancer.

Friends provided support as did family, although most of mine are still in Texas. Double mastectomy, reconstructive surgery and chemo -- we survived them all and embarked on our new life.

Peter called one evening -- Chris had just passed away. I had no idea that she suffered a recurrence, but had kept them informed on Jill's situation. Chris had kept my notes about Jill at her bedside, constantly hoping for the best for Jill.

That did it -- I needed help coping, not with just Jill's survival, but also mine. Jill's support group knew about the Man to Man group, and told me about it. I swallowed my pride (Denny's for God's sake) and went to my first breakfast. Small world that it is, the founder was Mary's brother.

Yes, it's a shaggy group. I'm no longer a regular, as work has invaded my life, but I am striving for more regular attendance. We discuss anything from current events; current "manly" projects around the house; and, of course, anything that may be surfacing as a result of our beloved survivors.

Has it helped me? YES. It has elevated my cholesterol (what do you expect from Denny's?), acknowledged some close friends, provided a sounding board for sensitive health issues and made me realize that I was not alone in my ordeal or fears.

Will it help you? I can't say, but you won't know unless you give it a chance. Jill has been "clean" for over 8 years. She finished chemo years ago, but we still cringe every time there is a new pain, bump or strange ailment.

Writing this re-ignited many of those scary feelings. See you next week, guys.

Paul Thompson / Erica Atkisson

Paul -- I guess I'm a "loner." I have always been most comfortable being independent; being able to solve my own problems; never feeling the need to build a circle of male friends to just "pal around with." But when my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, I knew for the first time that I needed help in working through the maze of choices and uncertainties associated with the disease. Furthermore, I knew that the help I needed was not the clinical kind that one gets from the oncologist or psychiatrist, but the down-to-earth, "I've been there" help that can only come from another man who has experienced what I'm experiencing.

I found that help in the Marin Man to Man support group. The individuals there were sympathetic without being patronizing and I was able to learn from them what aspects of the way that breast cancer touches your life can be fixed, and those that can't. I also learned that there is a life outside of breast cancer because there were many Wednesday morning breakfasts when the topic of cancer wasn't even discussed. Those sessions were opportunities for group bonding as a reserve for when one of the members was in crisis from either his partner's disease, from the post-menopausal fall-out of the disease, or from his own health problems.

That was three years ago. My wife is now a breast cancer survivor and so am I. I continued to attend the Wednesday morning breakfasts until the moment I moved from Marin. Now I have started a Marin Man to Man look-alike group in Eugene, Oregon, because I know how valuable it was to me.

Erica -- In July of 2000, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, the strength went out of my knees and terror replaced my capacity to think. After my surgery, I contracted bacteria that caused me not to heal. I had two more major surgeries, after the big one in November 2000, so was grounded until early March 2001. Since then, I've been in reasonably good health; however, I erupt once in a while with a mighty case of the blues.

Through all this, my husband, Paul Thompson, has been my caretaker. It's a tough job. He needed to come up with answers and constant support in the first stage of discovery. In the second stage, he had to replace bandages, clean surgery drains, apply ointments all over my body and bring me my food. During all this, his optimism and constant support could not flag. Up to the present time, three years later, he still tends to be on guard for those moments that my wheels come off, apparently a side effect from the drama of coping with a life-threatening disease.

I have not been able to give him comparable attention, needing all my equipment to keep myself glued together, yet I felt an enormous pressure from guilt over what I was taking from Paul, who had illnesses and fears of his own.

When he was referred to the men's support group, all that pressure went away. He had guys to hang with who had been through similar experiences. Often they would compare notes and trade advice, but other times they talked about baseball and politics and discussed whether the hash browns at Denny's were as good as they used to be. Paul had a place to go where he could unwind and feel safe. It was a God-send.

Woody Weingarten / Nancy Fox

Woody -- "Nancy's all right but the tumor was cancerous," said the surgeon.

"Oh, God," I thought. "Why her? Why her?"

I couldn't cry. I couldn't scream. I wanted to do both.

"We believe we got it all," said the doctor, later indicating we could expect at least one more operation -- the removal of lymph nodes.

It would be a while before I'd learn about the unholy cancer treatment trio, "slash, poison and burn."

When she first undraped her right breast for me a little later, I stiffened. The lumpectomy gash extended several inches. I inspected it with my eyes, afraid to touch it lest a microbe on my fingertips infect the wound. After staring for a few seconds, I relaxed. "If that's the worst that'll happen, we're lucky as hell," I said.

But I was scared.

"I know it sounds hackneyed but I love my wife so much it hurts. We were supposed to grow old together. God, I'm terrified. Don't let that cancer take her from me."

Meanwhile, worry about the side effects of the upcoming chemotherapy boosted Nance's fear quotient. She awakened regularly at 3 a.m., vulnerable, shaking me into semi-awareness and whispering, "I'm scared. Please hold me." Soothing her required my squeezing like a boa.

My own anxiety directed me to this men's group, Marin Man to Man, a unique drop-in support club for guys whose partners have breast cancer.

Launched under the auspices of the local unit of the American Cancer Society but continued as an independent group, it met its promises to be "a sympathetic forum to discuss and understand the challenge for the man to be supportive and loving, and to reassure the woman that both she and their relationship will survive."

Most of all, I liked that there was no facilitator.

And common problems, I found, can activate bonding.

No matter how bright my outlook, the breast cancer's residue during the first year after treatment -- and now and then for years afterward -- sometimes fused thoughts of worry, fear and loss into one big ogre for me. Marin Man to Man became a haven, a safe place to express my anxieties, my terror.

The first chemo session wasn't physically painful, yet my wife felt as if the rug had been snatched from beneath her. She couldn't stop thinking about the toxins dripping into her veins. Despite my squeezing her hand, despite the chemo room at Marin General Hospital overlooking a mountain and the egrets gliding by the picture window, despite her headset lulling her with the sounds of a relaxation tape, despite the special crystal clutched in her hand, and despite the nurses being as soothing as a Frank Sinatra ballad, Nance called it "the hardest day I've ever had in my life."

It wasn't exactly my easiest. I felt as if a kickboxer had launched a full-strength attack on my stomach.

The session lasted three hours, counting the paperwork and questions, an electrocardiogram, a drug orientation and, lastly, the chemo.

But the men in this support group understood every nuance, and were there to listen to my inner scaredy-cat.

Later, the first of 33 radiation days gorged us with emotion.

My stomach became a volcano near the point of discharging its lava as I stared at Nancy. She lay on her back, motionless, filling the narrow, padded hospital platform. Her right arm was raised in an artificial stirrup salute to the hallowed god of techno-medicines. Red rays peeked through holes in the ceiling and lined up with a magic-marker blueprint on her bare right breast.

In spite of the techies and doctor doing everything imaginable to comfort us, in spite of orderlies having antiseptically scrubbed the place so everything shined, an eerieness polluted the pre-conditioned air. As if trapped in a bad horror flick, I fully expected a hunchbacked lackey named Igor to lunge from a dank passageway.

Again, as always, the members of Marin Man to Man were there to allay my fears.

Our dues-free, facilitator-less meetings usually corralled fewer participants than could be counted on the fingers of one hand, mainly because most men apparently are hesitant to share their insecurities, to admit they can't fix everything, to shed their machismo. Tom Hanks may be a sensitive, politically correct, guy-next-door role model but The Rock would remain the kind of idol most guys seem to prefer.

But no matter who was fronting it, Marin Man to Man was soothing, helpful, the perfect place for fellowship -- and the group would always run itself the way it long had, self-propelled.

Whenever I become frustrated because more men don't seek the help they obviously need, frustrated because of the large number of guys who came once or twice and never showed up again, the words of the group's founder reassured me. "Those who drop in and don't come back," he said wisely, "take whatever they need and get support elsewhere."

And then, of course, there are the "lifers," the stalwarts who stay in Marin Man to Man year after year, to aid and comfort others the way they themselves once were helped.

My 240-page "Roller Coaster" manuscript needs an agent to market it, or a publisher who knows such a book can benefit both male caregivers and their partners. Anyone interested in talking with me about it should call (415) 459-3434.

Nancy -- Since my bout with cancer sucked up all of my energy, physically and psychologically, I know I was not "available" in many ways to comfort my husband, a role I generally assume as his wife.

I was too scared, hurting, focused on my own healing, schedules, aches and pains to deal with "how it was for him." I just wanted him to be there. And he was.

I should have known he was equally frightened, but I didn't.

I should have known he needed to talk about it, but I was the wrong audience.

I should have been able to be there for his concerns, but I wasn't. I was too wrapped up in my own.

There were even times when he accompanied me to my chemotherapy sessions that I wished he weren't there. I didn't want him to see it. I didn't want to worry about his reactions to what was going on. And I couldn't even tell him that at the time, because I didn't want to hurt him, since he was being so sweet and loving.

Sometimes I thought he came to those sessions more for himself than for me. Strange.

So when we found out about Marin Man to Man, I was thrilled. Elated. Beside myself. A place for him to go. A place to vent with "the guys." A place for him to articulate all the stuff that was swirling around in his introspective head.

And, it turned out, it was also a place for him to help other men who were going through the same thing with their wives and partners.

I kidded him a lot about meeting at Denny's, a place I know women would never, under any circumstances, meet.

But the men didn't seem to care much about where.

They cared more about why.

Long after my cancer treatments were completed, I asked him why he continued to go on a weekly basis. I didn't understand. He said he wanted to be there in case other men needed to talk.

I think that is part of the reason. I also think it has given him a place to go to be with other men he enjoys. To talk about the cancer, and more. To do a male-bonding breakfast thing. To eat junky food if they want once a week and not have their wives glaring at them about it.

I can't address exactly what it means to him but I couldn't be happier that it exists.

I know he looks forward to these breakfast meetings. He rarely misses them, and contacts the others if he has to absent himself.

Woody is incredibly responsible. He has made the commitment, and he has kept it for nine years. I know he will continue to keep it as long as he feels there is a need.

It seems that some men come in and out of this group, but Woody has been there the entire time, as have one or two of the others.

He is now a point man for the group, and though I have not attended the meetings, I know his style, and I'm sure he talks a lot. Probably more than any of them.

He needs the outlet. He needs the guys. He needs the place to say, "I was really scared, and I understand your fear. Here's what worked for me."

Other men who are going through it need him -- an emotional, expressive guy who's not afraid to say, "I was scared."

And maybe he still is.