I am not my father.

My cancer is not my father’s cancer.

Two very simple statements, but the journey I undertook to be able to say them, and more importantly, to believe them, was perilous. What I didn’t understand when I was diagnosed with breast cancer five months ago is that I would not be experiencing this health crisis alone.

I’m not talking about family and friends helping me and supporting me; I hoped and prayed that they would (and they have). What I mean is that the cancer journey I started on in September is not just me fighting breast cancer — it’s me and a whole pack of ghosts of cancers past.

There’s my great-grandmother Susanna, who I was named for. She was a beautiful and tough Arkansas Ozarks mother of ten who died in her late sixties of cancer. No one is quite sure what kind.

And my husband’s grandfather Duffy, who died of lung cancer. Robert took him to his radiation treatments as he wasted away. He ended up so weak that my husband had to carry him into the hospital for his treatments towards the end.

There are other close relatives and friends. Marilyn and Josephine, who died of ovarian cancer. David and Stan, who died of brain cancer. Lou Ann, a next door neighbor who died of breast cancer.

And then there’s my dad. He was an amazing father and I adored him. A Texas cowboy, he was the very first in his family to go to college. He survived a horrific childhood where both parents died and he ended up an orphan at 15. He quit school to help support his two younger brothers, met and married my mom at 19, and, with her support, went to night school to get his high school diploma. He then applied to Texas A&M, graduated with honors, and moved out to California to work for Safeway. He built a new life in the Golden State and provided my sister and me with an idyllic upbringing. He loved horses, and I grew up on a string of fat and friendly ponies. My favorite memories are of trail rides with him in the gorgeous green foothills surrounding our house. He was active, fit, and happy. He loved life and he loved us.

But when he was 45 he contracted renal (kidney) cancer. And when he was 47, despite surgery, radiation, and chemo, the cancer advanced into his liver and he died.

So when I had my first indication that there might be something quite dangerous lurking in my breast, the ghosts started to stir. Fearful memories of others’ illness and death dusted themselves off and came back to life. Long forgotten images and conversations and smells and sounds came to mind, unbidden and unwelcome.

Dealing with breast cancer is enough, in and of itself. There’s so much to learn about the disease and the treatment, so many emotions and experiences to process, so many fears to battle. I knew this, in a way. I knew there would be much work to do and that I had a long and uncertain journey ahead of me. I just didn’t know that I’d be undertaking the journey with the ghosts of everyone I’ve ever known who’s died of cancer.