Robin Roberts' Breast Cancer Diagnosis
Good Morning America’s Robin Roberts announced today that she has breast cancer. The ABC morning show co-anchor, sitting next to co-anchor Diane Sawyer, made the announcement on-air. As she spoke, she grasped Sawyer’s hand, and raised it in a triumphant salute. “This is my Thelma,” she said. “We call ourselves Thelma and Louise, and we’re in the convertible right now. Full speed ahead.”
Thataway, Robin. You got that bone-chilling, mind-numbing, soul-shaking diagnosis a couple of weeks ago, and you’ve decided to pull yourself together and face the demon head-on. We all know what you’ve been going through the past couple of weeks. The sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. The hour-by-hour, even minute-by-minute mood swings: “What’s going to happen to me? I’m scared. I’ll be brave. I’ll fall apart. I’m going to die. I’m going to live. I’m going to LIVE.” You’ve been through that, come out the other side, and you’re ready to fight.
It’ll be a tough fight, no doubt. Though you didn’t reveal very much, those of us who’ve been through it can read between the lines. You say “I am so blessed that I found this in the early stages and the prognosis is so promising…” You’ll undergo surgery on Friday, and then begin a “course of treatment.” You didn’t reveal specifics of that treatment, but did indicate it’ll take months, and that you expect to lose your hair. That’s not just radiation. That’s chemo, the poison we both fear and love. Fear, because it comes close to killing us. Love, because eventually (hopefully) it kills only our cancer–not us. Early-stage cancer with a “promising prognosis” doesn’t really jibe with chemo, but… whatever you have, Robin, and whatever you do to treat it, you’ll get through it. One day at a time. Sometimes one hour at a time. One foot in front of the other–and with Thelma, your family, friends, and everyone who steps forward to give you their hand–you’ll get through it.
We hope you’ll share your battle with us in morning prime time. Your sisters in breast cancer will see the little things no one else notices. The stiff way you raise your arm; the tension in your shoulder. The look in your eyes that even makeup can’t hide: “I was sick all night and could barely drag myself out of bed this morning.” The clench in your jaw, from trying to smile and talk when all your face really wants to do is crumple in sadness and fear. We’ll see all that; and we’ll be pulling for you, Robin, sending all the healing energy we harbor inside us, hard-earned from our own cancer battles.
We love you, Robin. You’re one of us now.
Published On: July 31, 2007