cancer

I truly chose a general practitioner with no common sense. It didn’t matter to me that she wasn’t proactive. I mean, what would that matter? She would be there to fill prescriptions, fill out camp forms and take my blood pressure. I never realized that having a GP would be an asset when you want things expedited. Researched. Or you simply want to be referred to a secondary physician who is qualified and one of your choosing.

This all came into play as I tried to run up the steps to some sort of diagnosis. I had to call to get my results. And then they were only half my results. And then came the final call. On a day she would be unavailable to speak further.  How do you drop a bomb like this and then erase your compassion? I don’t know. I couldn’t do it.

It was 6:12 AM on Friday, April, 25^th. I thought the alarm went off three minutes early. It actually took my mind a moment for the ring to register. And then I said to Gary, “Answer it. I think it’s the phone.” I had been waiting for the phone to ring. I had called the radiology center every day but Thursday. I had called her office twice a day. I had hoped of all hopes that it was good news simply because the pathology had taken so long.

“It’s cancer.”  That was the first word my mind grasped.  “You can expect a cascade of events.”  I wasn’t sure but I thought I heard the word surgeon.

I just sat in utter shock. It really is shock and then immediate and utter terror.  The processing of such a cataclysmic diagnosis had begun.

It was a workday and I slowly got dressed, decided not to wear any mascara and head into the office.  This felt the like the end of the waiting. So scared was I. Now a new kind of scared came into view. The truth that life isn’t forever. That this might be my first entry, not unlike my father’s, into the horrible world of cancer treatment.

In that moment, my life changed forever.

learn this from me

I remember being given one of those self examination cards before. And I’d been proactive about it. I never was overly attached to my breasts – having been a very small and thin young girl. They were a sore spot for me in my middle school years. There was never a bra small enough to fit. There was one boy, in particular, who was merciless about it. He made it his mission to see to it that I be reminded of how desperately I needed kleenex. Boxes, tissues, small packages - they appeared everywhere. In my book bag, my locker, in my instrument case. So I knew from an early age that not having breasts was a clear sign that something was wrong with me. Aside from the popularity that breasts naturally brought you, I personally couldn’t see the value of them. To me – they were extra globes of weight that made it harder for you to run. And at that time, I just wanted to be the fastest 50 yard dash runner in the city.

 

I remember getting fitted for my first wedding dress and being told by a lovely european tailor that the cups would have to be “filled” with something to provide shape. I was all of 100 pounds and very tiny. But I wanted the sleeveless dress and that is what I got. And to be honest, I don’t remember it being stuffed with anything. It made me feel like a princess. I was beautiful that day.

As I continued to age – truly – I remained relatively flat chested.  They weren’t one of my better features, or rather non-features. And that was fine. My style was designer chic – moving from a femininely - masculine suit with a crisply pressd cotton shirt and funky tie (with men’s oxfords to match) to the more flowly and silly Madonna-ish style of big hair with a scarf wrapped in a bow, cool pants and flowing shirts. The 80's was a time of great fun where I could copy my idols and their clothing. Lingerie was of little interest to me. Fashion was giddy and silly. My body was really a tiny tubular shape - where my dimensions equaled the same from top to bottom. I remember - all 28".  I just dressed in ways that flattered it in the most joyful of ways. It was a happy time.

When I became a mother, things began to change. I began to dress more like a mother and often less like myself. And with the panic and anxiety that came from moving to the United States came medication that seemed to alter my metabolism. Slowly - very slowly, the weight began to climb. Let me tell you - try to enjoy shopping when the clothes available for your size simply suck. It is getting better, but then I am hoping to be thinner once again some day.

With the weight came the magical breasts. Something I had never thought of as a requirement. But I must admit that my first trip to Victoria Secret was mildly exciting for me! All those pretty bras. The lace, the color. Amazing. And I covet those beautiful ones that I have. There are three special ones. And they are glorious.

Sounds like an ode to the bra. And so it goes. Until this day.

I was being proactive, as I always have been. Finding the lump. Making an immediate appointment. And checking it out. I suppose the one thing that upsets me the most is all of the money I’ve invested in heart disease being the illness that eventually takes my life. Twenty years of Lipitor. I was heavily banking on genetics. My birth families history. You see, there is absolutely no cancer evidenced there. Only heart attacks and strokes. So I feel I am owed a refund. A BIG REFUND.

So much for the self examination cards when despite seeking assistance you are deferred. If there is a lesson out there for any woman, it is not to trust any medical professional with your body and your keen sense of intuition. If you know something is wrong, speak up. Speak up loud. Make them do what YOU deem necessary. And make them do it immediately.

Learn this from me.

hey cancer, fuck off

“I mean, how many times am I going to have to keep coming back every six months? Nothing has changed since the beginning. I just woke up and found a lump and went to the doctor right away. I don’t understand why we keep looking at it. Shouldn’t it be biopsied? I’ve been here three times for the same tests and I don’t want to keep coming back every six months.”

The young ultrasound tech kept on task but then said, “Do you want a biopsy?” I responded with, “Well isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Isn’t that the only way we’ll know?” To which she said, “Well I know I would want to know.”

So then just do it. She wasn’t sure whether she could schedule an immediate ultrasound. But in the moment, I knew it had to happen. I reminded me of a conversation I had had with Mary. My nipple was pointed down and had been for the entire year. I had pointed that out the last time I went in for my ultrasound six months earlier. But I was told this was common. I knew it wasn’t common for Mary and in fact, it was cancer. It wasn’t right for me either.

And so the action I have fervently sought over a year ago was finally going to happen.

In the moment, I couldn’t help but ask myself, “What took you so long?”

Let me tell you, that biopsy wasn’t at all pleasant. I did not want to hear about or discuss the logistics of it. I told Tracey, the nurse, that I needed my headphones so I could listen to the loudest music possible. I stumbled around and found Billy Squire’s, “In the Dark.” And it played almost 7 times.  The core needle biopsy sounds like a gun going off; feeling not unlike a large needle, ejecting itself into the underside of my nipple. Only six or so times did this gun go off. And there was blood mixed with iodine everywhere.

I left the clinic feeling as though I had been violated on some level. Raped in a strange way. So incredibly vulnerable. I stood outside the car and felt the warmth of my tears flow down my cheeks. Light snow was falling. It was peaceful and quiet. And then it occurred to me that there was no way I was going to my mother’s for dinner. Even my choir practice seemed like more effort than I had as I drove away from the imaging center.

At least it was over with. Now I could get on with it. Someone would agree to take the damn lump out. I’d only been waiting for over a year.