It took me year, but I finally learned the truth: we all need a boob squad. No, I’m serious here. I used to think I got my life covered. I could go it alone. I didn’t need any help. But breast cancer taught me how much fun it is to be part of a team.

Couldn’t I have just skipped cancer and learn that lesson from my Dad–the coach, who exemplified teamwork at its finest.

No, I needed to learn it for myself. I was just like so many other people who want to do everything themselves. Some of the classic lines that would come out of my mouth were:

• I don’t need any help, but thank you. (I’d say to you if you asked me if I needed anything.)
• I’m a lone wolf (I dated a guy that used that line all the time, a relationship doomed for failure but a fun line to quote).
• I’ve got it all under control (maybe you should read my post from a couple of weeks ago).

There are probably millions of others, but you get my drift. I’ve been all of the above and then some. It was almost a sign of weakness to be so vulnerable to have something wrong with me. I envisioned a perfect world to be one where I could do everything without asking for help from anyone. My idea of heaven!

But when I got breast cancer last year, my friend, who happens to also be a doctor burst my bubble. She said, “You got to get a team together. You need a quarterback.”

What a scary proposition! What did I know about any of that? My idea of teamwork was not to have one. Now I had to delegate, gulp, my life to a team. Sheer torture!

But it’s not like I had a choice, and it wasn’t a simple feat to ease into the concept. It took most of my breast cancer journey to assemble my teammates. And it was hard work, primarily because I had a track record of picking doctors based on who could entertain me the most.

Bedside manner suddenly didn’t matter anymore, and I was at a loss. How was I supposed to find experts–people who could actually help me?

And hiding was out of the question. I had no choice but to face it: I couldn’t do this alone.

So enter my chemo doctor. He wouldn’t tell me what was going on until after the fact, some team player he turned out to be. Until I got used to his style. He didn’t want to freak me out with what could happen, but he was always there to address what did occur. And he’s still there (I have one more infusion with my antibody drug to go)–as my number one quarterback. No matter what part of the journey I’m on, I’m carried in his arms.

And then there was my breast surgeon. She had studied pain management for an entire year, so she told me exactly how to get through post-op. I remember saying to the nurse, “I don’t feel any pain, so I don’t need to do this anymore.” And she said, “Trust me, do as she says; that’s why you’re not feeling any pain.”

And plastics, such a fun doctor to stereotype. And I did, only behind her back because I was too scared to say anything to her face. But all that changed when I insisted I needed Gabapentin to help me get through PT and this shooting pain I had going down my arm. She stopped my fills, which delayed my second surgery, only to send me to another specialist to help me deal with my cervical spine.

Seriously, I wasn’t happy when I found out I had a herniated disc, which had nothing to do with my boobs but involved another team of physical therapists in getting me through that. It turns out my physical therapists are a team in itself (I’ve burned through three of them–they keep leaving, and I don’t!)

That was just part of my team that got me through cancer–never once was it all about me (but, boy, my boobs got a lot of airplay).

I wouldn’t dare forget the medical assistants and my nurses–they were nothing short of miracle workers, and have been there with me helping me along the way.

And if I didn’t have a great enough team, I had you, my loyal cheerleaders! Go boob squad!

As hard as it was to open up to the idea that I needed a team, it’s even harder to imagine now going through life without one.

I’ve finally learned the truth about life. It’s too lonely to go through it alone. Without you, I’m just a boob without a squad and who needs that? Let’s promise each other to go through life the breast cancer way–we’ve got our team, and we’re gonna get through this together. We’ve got each other’s backs (or boobs as the case). Everyone needs a boob squad!