Amber Ferguson
Deltra James remembers spending the summer of 2019 being shuffled room to room through a New England hospital after being told she had a 12% chance of living five more years.
But on a gloomy Friday this August, a make-up artist applied glitter eye shadow on the lids of James’s eyes and her best friend helped her into a sequinned iridescent dress. She was ready to boogie.
“I feel so popular today,” James, 38, gushed as she scrolled through her phone messages from family and friends. “I knew I wanted to celebrate this day, and making it this far,” she said before the final swipe of liquid lipstick was applied.
At the banquet hall, mini disco balls adorned the top of cupcakes. A DJ played Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff before transitioning to the Cupid Shuffle. On the side table was a stack of end-of-life workbooks for the 40 guests to take home as party favours.
The mom of five strutted in dancing to I’m Still Standing by Elton John.
James took the mic. “I wanted this time to express my gratitude. Please share a memory in my memory book right outside the door. I would love to read what you have to say over and over again.”
She was so elated to be here, at her “cancerversary” celebration. Or as James described it ‒ a soft launch to her living funeral.
Five years ago, James was a 33-year-old stay-at-home mom preparing to home-school her young daughters for another year. She had just started doing monthly breast exams. One day in the shower, she felt a lump. It appeared seemingly overnight, she remembers. Her OB/GYN ordered testing. Neither felt concerned, though.
“You’re young and don’t have a family history of breast cancer. We’ll order an ultrasound for peace of mind,” James recalls her doctor telling her.
During the test, James saw the ultrasound technician’s facial expression changing, appearing worried. She was ushered to get a biopsy, mammogram and bone scan. Within three weeks, she was diagnosed with Stage 4 triple-negative breast cancer, which had spread to her liver.
“I couldn’t even remember leaving the room when they told me,” James said. “But somehow I went from the cancer centre to meeting my oncologist. I wasn’t familiar with the term ‘metastatic’. But I understood what Stage 4 meant, and there isn’t a Stage 5.”
She told her young daughters individually by going on walks or doing arts and crafts with them. James sent her best friend Trisha, who lived in Nevada, a voice message on Instagram. She was overwhelmed with the news and telling people, so next she made a post on social media.
People tend to know how to support someone diagnosed in the early stages of cancer, James said, by making them meals or giving them rides until they reach remission. But James knew her terminal illness was different. She would need ongoing support, but also community. “This was going to be a long haul,” she told people.
After her diagnosis, home schooling was the first thing she had to give up. Her five children, aged between 4 and 13 at the time, were enrolled in their local public schools two weeks later.
One week after her diagnosis, James settled into the “chemo chair” with a neck pillow, fuzzy socks and a colouring book. Triple-negative breast cancer is difficult to treat because the tumours don’t have the proteins needed to respond to targeted therapy or hormone therapy. James underwent weekly intensive IV chemotherapy for one year.
She knew the treatments weren’t a cure ‒ they were a means of stretching time, maybe giving her months instead of weeks, years instead of months.
“I didn’t search for deeper meaning in my diagnosis or try to find a silver lining,” James said.
Instead, she accepted the reality of her illness, which made her reevaluate everything. She wanted joy despite her circumstances.
During one of her rounds of chemotherapy, James and her husband of 10 years divorced. Though she keeps the details private, she said their relationship had been strained before her diagnosis, and the challenges only intensified as her illness progressed. “You can’t heal in an environment that makes you sick,” James said.
James, her daughters, and their three female cats moved into a rustic townhouse they call the “Girls’ House”. A couple of years after her divorce, James started going out on dates with men she mostly met through dating apps. James said dating with cancer was surprisingly enjoyable and easier than before. She didn’t hide her terminal illness and made it clear she wanted to keep living. She’s been with her boyfriend more than three years now.
Today, James is busier than ever. Not just with treatment but with advocacy.
She encourages those newly diagnosed to focus on their personal journey, rather than be overwhelmed by the daunting statistics often tied to the disease.
After four months on the only oral treatment available for her cancer subtype, James received news earlier this year ‒ her body wasn’t responding. She had brunch with a friend where she went over her will and what she wants for her daughters.
“It feels like sometimes I’m on borrowed time,” James said, reflecting on the delicate balance between purpose and the harsh reality of her diagnosis. Advocacy may give her life meaning, but it also forces her to confront the inevitable.
“I watch my friends die all the time, all around me, which doesn’t get easier no matter how positive I am. I’ve dealt with a lot of struggling and mourning and having accumulative grief.”
Reaching five years of survival feels almost unreal to her. She wanted to mark the milestone to celebrate her resilience, the family and friends who supported her through her hardest days, and also to remember the life she will eventually leave.
Her dad started the soul-train line, followed by her fellow home-school moms. Mixed in the crowd of Afro wigs, floral jumpsuits and hot boots was a group of women she recently connected with at Camp Breastie, a summer camp for breast cancer survivors. Of the six survivors who came to celebrate James, four were diagnosed before the age of 40, each with their own battle scars and victories.
James ended the night dancing to YMCA with her loved ones. They hugged her tight and whispered in her ear how much they care about her.
“We should not be waiting for funerals to say lovely things to the people we care about,” James said.
The Washington Post