Milagros

Milagros are small metal religious charms found in many areas of Latin America, especially Mexico and Peru. The word “milagro” means “miracle” in Spanish. These small charms, often depicting arms, legs, pregnant women, animals, and a wide range of other subjects, are believed to concentrate health and good fortune on the area represented. They are typically nailed or pinned to crosses or wooden statues of saints, pinned on the clothing of saint statues, or hung with little red ribbons or threads from altars and shrines. They are also carried for protection and luck. I was told that Mexican children know the favorite milagros of all their relatives, even the dead ones.

While on vacation in the small fairy-tale town of San Miguel de Allende in central Mexico, I saw baskets of milagros in every souvenir shop. When holding a handful in my palm, I was overwhelmed at first by the variety of tiny shapes. At first, I didn't see the breasts, but as I looked more closely, they started to emerge from the jumble of other body parts, dogs and cats, cars and houses, crosses and angels. I am not superstitious by nature, but I bought a dozen to take home, for me and all the other women I know who could use a concentration of health and good fortune in that area.

I have found that the line between faith and reason has become very blurred for me since my diagnosis. There is no doubt in my mind that my treatment is a triumph of science: that we have not only identified the HER2 receptor, but also conceived a medicine in Herceptin that uses the receptor to destroy the cancer - this incredible microscopic lock and key - is a true testament to human ingenuity. And yet since I finished treatment, all that is really left is faith - the hope that it worked, the hope that I'm cured. There is no more that medicine can do for me - I see my oncologist routinely because of the clinical trial protocols, but after my mastectomy there is nothing that a clinical exam could find. Ultrasounds, mammograms, and breast MRIs are similarly pointless now. Even comprehensive imaging, like PET or CT scans, are not powerful enough to determine if there is a single, elusive cancer cell cruising around my body somewhere. Science also cannot provide me with any comforting data - no one can say for sure how effective the drugs I got really are. Someday, I will become a statistic myself, either "NED" (No Evidence of Disease) at the five year mark, then ten years, then fifteen - or not. Until then, I just have to believe. 

What constitutes a miracle? The discovery of HER2, the invention of Herceptin? The telltale lump that sent me to my doctor, the ultrasound that he ordered in what he thought was an abundance of caution? The clinical trial that allowed me to continue my life through treatment? Or is the miracle still to come? As the years go by, I think those three little letters - NED - will become less and less about the medicine and more and more about faith. NED, day after day - that's my miracle.